


The Entire Body is a Valid Target

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: Siken Inspired Stories [4]
Category: Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ben Solo is a Mess, Bisexual Male Character, Casual Sex, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, M/M, Minor Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren, Minor Clyde Logan/Sarah Grayson, Slow Build, Soft Clyde Logan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-07-10 16:49:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19908997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: Ben does not deal well with being told he cannot have what he wants, least of all that it is by some means his own fault that he cannot have it. Running away from his problems leads him down I-95 and into the path of oneluckyindividual.





	The Entire Body is a Valid Target

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by these Siken bot tweets:  
> -> _Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing._  
>  -> _Do I have to stick my tongue in your mouth like the hand of a thief, like a burglary, like it’s just another petty theft?_
> 
> Both Ben and Clyde are absolutely bisexual in this work and their interest in women is present in the text.
> 
> [NOW WITH ART BY HEDGE !!! ](https://twitter.com/st_hedge/status/1164637963529150464?s=20) I'm dead, thanks.

Ben doesn't take the news well.

His coach barely has the words off of his lips when Ben checks out entirely. His ears ring over the sound of it. The birds in the tree outside the French doors to the back patio are screaming at each other. The wind whips through the leaves and the strings of miniature lantern lights strung up though the pergola swing wildly.

He hasn't made the team. He's the fucking best in the country and he hasn't made it. Not individual, not team. He had just painstakingly washed his mask that morning. He'd felt lighter than air diligently scrubbing with his fingers until the kitchen was filled with the scent of bleach-free-dye-free-hypoallergenic detergent. When he was finished with the mask he spent an hour carefully wiping down his blade, first coating it in WD-40 and then wiping it clean again. The trick was to leave just enough oil residue on the blade to keep it from rusting but not enough to leave stains on an opponent. It was a careful balance. When he was finished he slipped the blade through a piece of PVC pipe cut to an exact length, enough to cover the blade entirely with just an inch or so of overhang to protect the tip.

Now he can see himself clearly in his mind's eye, marching upstairs and unsheathing the épée and snapping it over his knee.

What did he have if not that?

Ben isn't listening as his coach explains his failures, but his parents are. They're leaning forward like they're watching the opera from their private box. Ben is the best épée in the country and the fifth in the world overall according to the official ranking. But the committee didn't care about that. They were aware of his reputation. The wild child, the bad boy. The relentless attacker who left opponents with neat, pinpoint bruises in every vulnerable place he could reach. The smartass ivy league legacy brat who wouldn't take _no_ for an answer if anybody bothered to try to say it and didn't hesitate to mouth off to officials and coaches and fellow athletes alike. The _mean_ one who destroyed opponents before the first strike landed by getting in their heads.

The committee doesn't want someone like Ben representing them at the highest competition level in the world.

Ben doesn't wait for his coach to finish humiliating him. He gets up and leaves, padding on light feet up the stairs to his room even as they all shout their protests after him. His equipment bag is still sitting on his bed where he left it. He up-ends the thing and dumps his whites out onto the floor. He goes though his dresser drawers and grabs handfuls of socks and underwear and shoves them into the bag. Then in go a pile of tee shirts and a balled up pair of jeans. He laughs as he shoves sneakers in too -- the whites on the floor and this amorphous tangle of dark clothing in its place. It feels ironic and significant in a way that makes rage bubble in his chest. He kicks the padding and wires aside and slings the bag over his shoulder and trots down the back stairs and out the side entrance to the garage. He peels out and hurtles down the drive and onto the road.

It occurs to him as horns screech when he whips out into traffic that he's possibly entirely over-reacting. The committee didn't care, so why should he?

The car's automated voice tells him that he has an incoming call from his mother. He ignores it. The car's automated voice tells him that he has voicemail. He listens to it an hour later when he's sitting in traffic on I-95.

"Ben, what the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" Leia says in an utterly calm tone over the speakers. She tells him to get his ass back to the house, to deal with the consequences of his actions.

"Fuck that," he spits. He puts his phone on _do not disturb_ mode and cranks the satellite radio as loud as he can tolerate. He can hardly see straight as he's driving around the loop near Washington DC almost four hours later. It's practically muscle memory as he navigates through the city and onto Massachusetts Avenue and into the parking area for the _Marriott Marquis_. He's sure that his mother will get pinged when he uses his credit card to pay for a room. He can picture her expression when the alert comes through, anger and relief at the same time. He flops onto the bed in his king room with an atrium view and turns his phone back on to wait for her call. He wonders what the concierge thought when he walked barefoot through the automatic doors with his bag that smelled just faintly of salt and fresh-scent deodorizing spray. It must have not mattered once he slapped the glossy black credit card down on the desk.

Just like his official ranking didn't matter.

He must fall asleep because the next thing he knows the room is dark and the room telephone is ringing in a persistent tone meant to mimic the sound of an actual ring. Ben crawls across the bed and fumbles with the receiver. "Hello?" he croaks into the thing before realizing he's got it upside down. "Hello?"

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Ben?" his father barks on the other end of the line, miles away. "We've been worried sick."

"You've been tracking my phone or checking my accounts, clearly. You can't be that worried. What tipped you off? The hotel charge itself or when I stopped for gas right before I got off ninety-five?"

"How _dare_ you," Leia pipes in when Han falters. Ben doesn't think he's on speaker. She must be on the line in another room. Her office maybe. He imagines her in her wingback chair behind her polished desk heaped with papers. "How dare you storm out like that -- make us worry that way. Over _what_ , Ben, a silly sports competition!"

"The Summer Olympics aren't a silly sports competition, Mom." Something clicks and he assumes that Han has gotten off the line. How like him, to scurry away at the barest hint of conflict.

"Stay the night, I can't see you driving in this state. Come directly home in the morning. _Directly._ "

"I don't think so," Ben snaps. He fumbles with the receiver again as he's shoving it back into the cradle. His goose is already cooked, why not burn it a little?

Ben wakes with the sun. He has always slept better in hotels than at home. At home he feels stagnant and itches to be out -- gone -- away. His bed is wonderful, excellent mattress and good pillows. But it does nothing to help him. A hotel room always meant he was doing something, achieving, chasing his rank to the corners of the continent. Even here in the hotel that he'd frequented so often as a child before his mother retired, was an easy place to rest his head. When he traveled with her it meant he didn't have to spend hours listening to a tutor he knew more than or endure his father's odd distance. He could sprawl out and nap or swim downstairs in the pool until his body wouldn't carry him across the surface of the water any longer.

There's no free breakfast buffet at this swankified hovel so he orders room service and takes his time filling up on eggs and bacon and custardy french toast swimming in real maple syrup as the sky changes over from bruise colored to pink to watery blue.

He considers his options.

He's through with school -- undergraduate at least. Finished that up last year. He's done nothing but train and compete since then, determined to ensure his place at the games. He hasn't considered work beyond the lucrative, if occasional, standardized test scam -- he may be a legacy but that's not all he is -- and even less so applying to any kind of graduate program. He's taken the tests a handful of times. He knows he can get into anywhere he settled on if he really wanted to settle.

He was pre-law. It was easy to go that way, something people expected him to do. Then off to Chandrillian University where he'd study something that would help him work for the Organa Family Foundation, as expected, after he passed the bar.

But the fencing was where his heart was. He couldn't give less of a fuck about raising charitable funds. He only wanted to prove -- again and again until he was too old to lift a blade against an opponent -- that he wasn't just _one_ of the best, he was _the best._

Now what?

Ben pulls his car onto the northbound ramp, resigned to whatever is waiting for him at home. He wonders how long his coach stayed after he left, if they'd detailed all of his most grievous offenses. All the ones he's kept carefully quiet for so long.

"Fuck that. Fuck them," he shouts at the early morning traffic.

At the first available off-ramp, he swings the car around and shoots up into the U-turn lane. He laughs wildly at the sparse traffic on the southbound side. He has no idea where he's going except that it won't be _directly home._

Ben crawls down the Interstate, through Virginia and into North Carolina. The billboard advertisements below DC are distinctly regional. Although, he supposes, everything is. Everything is normal for where it is. The one familiar theme is the sports complexes. No matter where one went, if they payed attention to the signs, there were always sports. They were multipurpose, of course. Concerts, political rallies, circuses -- though, those were mostly the same -- flea markets, state fairs. Ben glances at a sign just after lunch: ten miles to the Charlotte Motor Speedway, Exit 49.

The complex he pulls up to is massive with odd triangular parking lots and a main entrance faced with blindingly shining chrome. The place is crawling with families of all shapes and sizes in nearly the same uniform: fathers with freckled shoulders and cargo shorts, exuberant children with sun-reddened cheeks, mothers trying to keep it all together. Ben floats through the squalling crowds toward the ticketing booths. He buys his way in and lets himself be pushed into the flow of people toward concessions and swag. Another constant: the prices of food and drink at any sports complex are complete highway robbery. Armed with nachos and a beer with far too much head, Ben picks his way out to his assigned seat. He barely lasts thirty minutes before he's back near the concessions buying a stupid hat with a big embroidered _C_ on the front. The sun is beating directly in his face. He can practically feel his nose beginning to burn.

"What the _fuck_ ," Ben mutters as the cars set to race begin to pull out onto the track. It's a fleet of school buses each painted a different color, all with what looks like the frequencies to different local radio stations sketched crudely on the sides.

There's a musical sort of giggle that comes from above. Ben turns in his seat and is confronted with a shapely pair of thighs in cut off shorts. A single long tattered piece of denim weave sways in the stiff breeze that blows through the track. She shouts for some color, voice getting caught up in the cacophony around them. Her hands move from her face, cupped like a megaphone, to her hips and she knocks Ben's hat with her elbow. She jumps a little in surprise as if unaware that Ben was even in the seat beside her. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry -- I didn't get you, did I?"

Ben shakes his head and adjusts the bill of his cap. "No, no, I'm fine."

The girl beside him plunks into her seat and leans down to pick her own plastic cup of beer up from the ground. She sips and runs her tongue across the bubbles that cling to her lip. "That's my cousin out there drivin'," she she says. "It his first _Summer Shootout_." She turns to look at Ben, both hands wrapped around her cup. "Looks like it's your first, too."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mmhm."

"How do you figure that?"

She flicks the bill of his cap with her pink, manicured fingertips. "Still got too much shine on you." She squints, her brow coming together just behind the thick frames of her sunglasses, and scrutinizes him for a moment. "You on vacation with the family?"

"Nah, on my own. Taking a spontaneous road trip."

"Oh yeah?" She says and laughs. "How far you come? Sounds like you're from up north." She tucks a curly lock of golden hair behind her ear.

"Jersey," Ben drawls. "Little bit outside the city."

"Lotta cities, hon. _The city_ here is Charlotte."

"New York City."

"Mm, explains all that black." She sips her beer as she answers, making it sound like she's _splained_ it instead. "I hear that's all people wear up there."

Ben snorts. It's not entirely true, but not entirely untrue. "I just like black."

The girl's attention is snatched away by the revving of engines and the sound of the announcer over the speakers above the crowd. She cheers and claps and Ben has no idea which bus exactly she's rooting for but it seems natural to join in. The sun flashes off the mirror-like lenses of her sunglasses. Ben knows that he's staring and he can't make himself stop. Everything about her is a novelty from that long strand of tattered denim weave to the bright pink hairpins criss-crossed just behind her ear. He can picture, he thinks, how the wild blonde coils would bounce around her face if she freed them from the careful twist that crowns her head.

"I got somethin' on me? Somethin' stickin' out?" she asks in a wry tone in a slight lull of the excitement. "What're you looking at, Jersey?"

"Ben," he says as the school bus engines roar.

"What's that?"

"My name is Ben!" The girl grins and nods and finishes her beer. Her attention drifts back to the race and Ben decides he wants it all. "Can I get you another drink?"

She purses her lips and considers the foam at the bottom of her empty cup for a moment. "No, but you can escort me to get one for myself."

She buys herself a coke and they make they way back to their seats. Ben asks her name and promptly forgets it. Clara? Carla? Carly? He's about to ask her to repeat herself and decides it doesn't matter. He winces, the overly sweet Slurpee he's ordered giving him the worst brainfreeze. His new friend laughs and turns back to the races. Ben chews his straw when she grabs his arm and screams in delight. Her hand is soft and warm and a little sweaty, fingers sticky with the soda that had leaked from under the plastic lid of her cup.

The crowd quiets for the announcement of the winners and they chat while the buses are driven off of the track and the drivers walk toward the center.

"So how long are you in town Jersey Ben?" He shrugs and says he's not sure. He has enough clothes for a week and enough cash for maybe another day or two if his mother cuts his card off. "Why on God's green Earth would she do that?"

"I didn't exactly leave under the best circumstances."

She turns fully in her seat and puts an expression of mock astonishment on her face. "Ben are you a runaway?"

"I guess I am."

She waves off the notion. "Has anyone who hasn't run away from home at least once really lived? I certainly don't think so."

"Have you then?"

"Maybe." She suddenly stands, whooping in delight. Her cousin -- Friend? Brother? Ben can't remember what she'd said -- has not made the podium. The heat is getting to him a little, he thinks. He shouldn't have had the beer. "That's alright, you'll get 'em next year!"

The man on the big screen looks bashful as he takes off his cap and waves to the crowd.

"Aww, I thought for sure he'd at least make third. He's got a bet with his daddy, gonna have to shave his head now." The thick mop he's uncovered looks like it'll be sorely missed. "Say Ben," she looks studiously at her phone for a moment and then fires off a text message with a rapid _taptaptap_ of her nails. "You wanna grab somethin'a eat? Someplace that's less wild, maybe?" She laughs and wild sounds like _wh **eye** ld_ and she blushes. "Have an actual conversation?"

Ben watches her mouth. She licks her bottom lip and tucks it in for an adorable little bite. He doesn't answer.

"I haven't really met anyone who wasn't from North Carolina before. Or who didn't go to my high school, frankly. I've suddenly got a little cabin fever."

Ben presses his lips together and they spread into a smile. He wishes he could see what her eyes were doing behind those sunglasses.

"Well?"

"Yeah. Yeah, let's go."

"Good. We'll go back down to town. Bartender at the Duck Tape makes the best damn cocktails. Fries aren't so bad either."

The girl slips her arm through Ben's as they make their way out of the stands and through the venue. They stroll out toward the main gate, slowing down. "I'll follow you?" Ben asks. "To the Duck Bill."

"Duck _Tape_."

Ben laughs softly. "Alright, Tape. I'll follow? Where are you parked?"

"I came with some friends, they've left already. I could ride along with you, give you directions. It'd be easier that way, anyway, don't you think?"

"You're just gonna get in a car with some guy you just met?"

"You don't look like the _Big Bad Wolf_ to me. Besides, I don't check in with my girlfriends at a set time they'll call the police." Ben wants to laugh again. The _po-leece_. "And I'm perfectly capable of fuckin' you up."

Warmth bubbles in Ben's chest. He likes this girl, a lot. He wishes he could remember her name. Someone calls out and it grabs her attention. She turns and waves and shouts that she's escorting this lost sheep back to the Duck Tape. She's smart, making sure everyone gets a good look at who she's with and hears exactly where they're going. _Fuck_ , what is her name?

Ben leads her to his car and she whistles when she sees it. It's nothing super special. It's reliable, good on gas. Gets him to competitions in one piece. "Are you trying to look like you don't have as much money as you actually do, Runaway Ben, because that is exactly what this ride looks like." She leans in close and lifts her sunglasses, tilting her head to look at the surface of the car from an angle. "Not black then. _Hm_." She raises a brow and drops the glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. "Must be because you're from just _outside_ the city."

Ben blushes and she grins. 

"We may as well get comfortable. Better to wait a moment than to rush out of here and get caught bottle-necking. I bet the air conditioner in this thing works really well." She swipes her hand across her brow as if to punctuate her point.

Ben digs the key from his pocket and presses the button on the fob to unlock the doors. The girl slinks down into the passenger's seat in a flash, sighing into the ergonomic cushioning. They watch the traffic move slowly around them. The cool air from the vents makes Ben's nose tingle and he knows it's burned. The girl reaches out toward the radio and he nods his permission. She presses buttons, switching from satellite to FM and scanning the stations.

"Might as well have the whole local experience while you're here." She stretches and slouches in her seat, tapping her fingers against her thigh in time with the song that's playing. "Oh gosh this damn thing," she says with a little breathless laugh. Ben thinks she's nervous. Her cheeks turn a little pink. She's not burned. "This is my song... mm-mmh- _hmmfastest draw in town. Cora Lee's clackin' on her spoons_." She snorts as if at a private joke. "Momma's favorite movie of all time is _A Star is Born_. She just loved that Kristofferson guy, the one singing this. And that is how I was named Cora. Daddy wouldn't let her call me Krissy so they compromised. Ridiculous, isn't it?"

Ben shakes his head. "Not at all. I'm named after a family friend. But his name wasn't even _Ben_. It was Obi Wan. How the fuck do you get Ben out of Obi Wan?"

Cora. Fucking Cora. She laughs out loud, covering her mouth for it. "Was he a runaway from New Jersey, too?"

"I haven't got the slightest idea. Parents never talked about him and I never cared to ask."

"They named you after the guy but then never talked about him?" Ben shrugs, at a total loss. Cora takes her sunglasses off, finally and hangs them on the front of her shirt. She purses her lips in a smiley way and looks at him. "Ben, anybody ever tell you that you've got very old eyes?"

"I'll have to get my money back from my Botox guy."

She snorts. "No, no, I mean. Like an old soul or something cliché like that. There's a lot going on in there."

Ben feels a little bit like he's in a terrible Valentine's release movie. Cora reaches out and takes his cap off. She sets it on the dash without looking and gently brushes his hair back off of his forehead. It's greasy with sweat and sticks together. She tucks it behind his ear and he winces, the red tips aren't because he's flustered. She seems not to notice. She leans in tentatively and Ben grins, leaning just a little further. He wonders if she's waiting for him to make the move? Does she fancy herself in the same movie?

Ben gasps and Cora's lips are meeting his. Her palms are burning against his sun-exhausted skin, on his cheek and right through the denim on his thigh.

She's a good kisser, he'll give her that. She really leans into it, takes the initiative. Her whole body relaxes when Ben grips her waist, sneaking a thumb up under the super soft cotton of her shirt. She's not slobbery or selfish, she's aggressive but she's not hoisting herself over the gear shift to crawl into his lap.

It's nice.

Better than who he's been fucking around with. Now _he's_ fucking selfish. Ben had thought that would have ended when he graduated, but somehow it hadn't. They're not serious, its just fun, but Ben does wonder if this would make him jealous -- _fuck_ , Cora sounds nice when she makes that husky sound and her nails are pressing into his thigh and --

There's a sharp knock on the window and it claps like a firework inside of the car. Cora jerks herself away and Ben's jaw burns with the welt she's left inadvertently.

"Excuse me!" Someone shouts through the closed window. Cora shades her brow with a hand and sinks down in her seat in time with the window rolling down. "Excuse me," they say again, leaning down to speak at eye level.

"Can I help you?" Ben says, craning across the center console, in a tone that says he has no intention of assisting.

"Oh my _god_ ," Cora mutters.

"Can you fold your mirror in, bud? I'm a little close on this side."

"No, they don't fold."

"Well, I'm not sure I can judge it right and I don't want to take it home with me. How 'bout you move up just a bit. You got a couple feet'a space in front. I don't need much room. I'll tell ya when t'ah stop." The whole time they're shouting over the radio that's still playing.

Ben starts the engine without another word, glad he supposes that he won't be just idling and wasting the battery any longer. Last thing he needs is car trouble half a day from home. As his parking neighbor is uselessly directing him forward the driver pf the car in front of him shows up and pulls out. Ben follows them out of the row and watches Cora from the corner of his eye, waiting for direction.

"Good lord, what am I thinking." She giggles a little wildly and scrubs her hands over her face. She sits up and fastens her seatbelt. Ben follows suit. "When you get to the gate make a left, follow that road all the way down to the light."

The Duck Tape is an island in the middle of a wide, deep parking lot. It seems to just be starting to fill up for the evening. The size of the lot makes sense. There are an array of trucks of all ages and styles plus smaller cars scattered between. If Ben were into cars he feels like it would be a dream. He's pretty sure at least four of the rust-colored red pick-ups are at least as old as his father. They look well taken care of: the rust color the _actual_ color with clean, new tires. He wonders how well they do on gas -- if they're loud to ride in.

"Ben? Oh, _Ben_?"

Ben shakes his head and apologizes.

"You alright, hon?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine, sorry."

"I think you've got heat exhaustion. C'mon, they just got a new AC in there and it's like a meat locker all the time, it's perfect."

They walk up to the building and up onto the porch. There's a group of young men sitting outside that greet Cora and give Ben suspicious glances. Inside they search for a table to no avail and wind up along the back of the bar. There really isn't a _back_ Ben guesses, but the lights seem just slightly more gentle and the bottles on the counter in the center of the ellipse-shaped space seem arranged as to face the opposite direction. It is cool inside but not quite refrigerated, not with the number of bodies in the room. The man in the middle of it all is like a breathing brick wall. He's broad-shouldered and tall and stands with his feet planted firmly on the floor and his shoulders back. His head dips just slightly forward, like he's waiting for someone to come along and clap him on the back of the neck. He lifts a bottle and pours from high above the glasses he's preparing. He does something with the shaker and the people around the other side of the counter clap. The bartender sets the drinks out and raises his hand in mock modesty.

The bartender makes his way around to their side and swipes away a pair of used pressed paper coasters. "Hey, Miss Cora Lee."

"Hey, Clyde."

"How can I help you?" His voice has a slow cadence, like there's some sort of inner gentleness that has to go somewhere. Like there's not enough room in that massive body for it.

"Can we get two cheese fries, two burgers -- medium-well -- and two cokes?" Ben can't help but smile at how Cora takes the lead.

The bartender, Clyde, nods and fills two glasses from the soda gun, thumbing the button labeled _C_. He seems to do everything one-handed, chucking down new coasters and placing the glasses on top to slide over. When he's finished he leaves entirely to stand just inside the swinging kitchen doors and shout their order. "Miss Cora," he says when he returns, leaning casually against the bar-top. "Your brothers owe me."

She snorts into her glass and agrees. "They shouldn't have bet against you, Clyde they're complete fools."

"I told 'em I could flip that bottle." He grins and crosses his arms. "I don't think I've seen you around here before."

"Clyde, this is Ben. He's run away from New Jersey -- just outside of the city, New York City -- and before you ask him, he just likes black, it's totally not a thing." Clyde looks down at himself at his faded black denim and black button front shirt and shrugs. "I found him at the races today and decided to show him some hospitality."

"Well, Ben, what're you runnin' away from?"

Ben hesitates for a moment. He feels entirely too seen, like Clyde has X-ray vision. "They announced the Olympic team yesterday and I'm not on it."

Cora perks up and gives him an interested look. Clyde raises a brow and looks over his shoulder to scan the bar for a moment. "I hate to break it to you, but there's a lot of people not on the Olympic team. Whole bar-full right here."

"Yeah, well, I should be on it. I'm the highest ranked épée in the damn country." Cora asks him what that is and he explains.

"Sword fighting?"

"Yeah. But apparently I am an _undesirable representative on the world stage_. I'm a bad example."

Cora asks how Ben is such a bad example and he keeps it light. He doesn't lose well, on the rare occasion he loses. He's too aggressive in matches. Gets in too many fights outside of them. She shrugs, "Sounds like every other man I've ever met."

Clyde excuses himself to help a patron. Ben shrugs. "I guess I'm too much of a brat. Spoiled. Never been told _no_." Cora rolls her eyes. "Fencing's all I have, really. Been working for this my whole life. Now I'm finally good enough and it just gets snatched away like -- " He snaps his fingers for effect.

Clyde turns with an astonished look on his face, clearly thinking the snap had been for him. Ben blushes and shakes his head. The bartender frowns and turns back to his task, popping the tops off of brown glass bottles and setting them neatly on a tray.

"Silly sport can't be _all_ you have. What the hell did you plan on doing when you couldn't... you know. Play? Anymore?"

Ben frowns so hard it is as if his entire face is involved in the process. He is rescued by the food that suddenly appears from the kitchen. His stomach rumbles so loud he thinks Clyde could have heard it all the way across the bar.

The food is nothing short of amazing, although it could just be that Ben is ravenous. "You ever have Disco Fries?" he asks while he licks molten cheese from him fingertips.

"What the hell is that?" Cora asks around a bite of burger. She's like a breath of fresh air. None of the girls Ben has ever hung around with would _just eat_. The way the pink tip of her tongue appears at the corner of her mouth is utterly charming. He wants to lean in and lick the bit of ketchup off himself.

"You have not lived until you've had shitty Disco Fries at a greasy diner at three in the morning." She rolls her eyes. "It's French fries covered in brown gravy with mozzarella melted on top. You may or may not be allowed to use a fork."

Cora snorts and finishes her coke. "I'll have to try that. Hey, Clyde?" He finishes dealing out a tray of waters and shuffles over to them. "Can you make me one of those spicy flowery things?"

"'Course," he says and leans down to grab something out of the fridge beneath the counter. He plunks a pitcher of purpley-pink juice in front of them and sets out a tumbler. He asks Ben if he'd like one as well and gets a _why the hell not_ in response.

Ben watches with interest as Clyde spears circular slices of jalapeno through with a fork and distributes them between the glasses.

"You know," he says and he steadies the first glass with a delicate clink. Is he wearing a glove? Ben can't quite tell on the other side of the pitcher. "You started a damn trend with that tropical party. Gotta keep a whole pitcher of this stuff on hand now."

He muddles the peppers gently and adds a scoop of ice. The juice from the pitcher goes in with a shot of tequila. The whole thing gets topped off with a deep red trumpet of a flower. Ben thinks his mother would be jealous of how vibrant this little hibiscus bloom from a plastic fruit carton in the fridge is. It wouldn't be out of place in her overflowing garden.

Clyde slides the two glasses toward them after he's stashed the pitcher away again. "Spicy pineapple hibiscus for two."

Ben gets a better look this time before Clyde crosses his arms again, a pleased look on his face.

"Go on, Runaway, try it." Clyde watches Ben take a sip. His lips tingle with the heat and the booze. "Hold up to those fancy places in New York?"

Ben likes the way Clyde says it. And the hint of smugness about his mouth that disappears as quickly as it turned up when Ben nods and says it's great.

"That's last call now before tonight's grand event. We still got room if you two wanna stay for the festivities. I'll stamp ya now if y'like."

Cora scrutinizes Ben over the rim of her glass for a moment and then sticks her hand out like she's going to give Clyde a fist-bump.

"Well alright then." He leans over the register and grabs a stamp and a bright pink ink pad. Cora grins at the star on the back of her hand and nods at Ben to offer his as well. "That'll be thirty for the pair of you. Tap beer's on the house."

Ben leans over and fishes his wallet from his pocket. He slides the shiny black card across the counter and tells Clyde to charge him for their meal and drinks, too. The bartender raises his brow and turns the card over to see if it's signed. He asks Ben for ID, he's never seen a card that looks like this before.

"You tryin' to throw your weight around Ben --" she peeks over at the ID Clyde hands back. "Organa-Solo?"

Ben purses his lips and puts everything away. "I just go by Organa, and no. It's the only thing I have on me."

Cora lets out a disbelieving little grunt. "Alright then, Ben Organa, you got something you can show off? I'd dare you to pick a fight with one of the boys out front, but I'm not sure how they'd fare with a sword."

"Against me? Not well." Ben cannot wipe the grin off of his face thereafter. He is admittedly vain -- proud -- self involved. The only thing he likes better than fencing is _talking_ about fencing. Not even a nice, leisurely fuck really comes close. He taps the Instagram icon on his phone and navigates to his profile. He taps on the hashtag in his bio: _#15X3BENORG_

"What does the number mean?" Cora scrolls through the _Top Posts_ tab, engrossed in the pictures of matches and practices.

"The scoring system. Three minute rounds, winner is whoever gets to fifteen points first or whoever scores the most after three rounds -- ah, nine minutes."

"Cute." She raises a brow and sips her drink to hide the blush that blooms on her cheeks. A workout clip auto-plays. She taps the video to mute it quickly as she can when Ben grunts and twists on the floor with a medicine ball in his arms. "Well, then."

She looks up at him from beneath her lashes and returns to scrolling. She gasps softly and hands the phone back.

"I'm sorry, if I'd known you were off the market, I -- "

Confused, Ben looks at the screen. The photo is captioned _celebratory smooches || the entire body is a valid target_.

It's from the last tournament Ben won before he graduated. Hux had been furious about the post. He could lose his job, he argued. He could be dismissed from his graduate program for indecent conduct. Ben could show flagrant disregard for his own privacy but Hux's was off limits. Ben left the post up. No one could prove who it was in the photo with the way he'd cropped it. An anonymous mouth, a shoulder, perfectly manicured fingers on Ben's cheek.

"I'm not." Ben shakes his head. "It was casual. Haven't really spoken to him in a while." He leans in to whisper, the shot of tequila gone to his head already -- when had he turned into a lightweight? "You're a much better kisser than he is, Miss Cora Lee."

"You didn't answer me before. What did you plan to do for a living? Retire and become a coach?" It's a quick and effective segue, getting Ben to talk about himself again.

The thought had never crossed Ben's mind. He files it away to ponder over later. "I was gonna go to law school. Sort of just follow the family plan."

"Parents lawyers?"

"Ah, not exactly. My dad kind of... I don't know. Has a few things going at any given time. Mom's, um, kind of a public servant?"

Cora laughs. "I get it, don't wanna give away all your secrets at once."

"I'm kind of an open book. Google's a goldmine, you know?"

"No, I don't, but I'll take your word for it. What kinda law, then?"

Ben shrugs. "Mom runs this human rights... thing. Whatever would help with that, I guess."

Cora snorts and rattles the ice in her glass. She sticks her finger down the side and pulls out a piece of jalapeno and puts it in her mouth. "You certainly are somethin', Ben."

"What about you, then? What do you do when you're not watching school bus races?"

"Not much. I work at the daycare in town. I couldn't afford a four-year thing? I've got an Associate's in Communication. Can't do much with that, but I was the first in my family to really try the whole college thing. School wasn't really a good match for my brothers. Regular school, at least. One's a carpenter, other's an electrician. They're learned up and certified all properly -- do renovation kinda stuff together. Gosh, I'm ramblin'!" Cora plucks the flower from her glass and pulls it apart.

"If you had the opportunity to do whatever, what would you?"

"Well," she rolls a red petal between her fingers. Ben doesn't really care, he thinks, but her ears have turned as red as the flower. "I've always thought about bein' a teacher? For the GED program, maybe. Or a nurse. I like feeling like I've helped."

"So _that's_ why you invited me out."

She barks out an amused sound. "I guess so. Sylvia -- that's Clyde's brother's girlfriend?"

Irrelevant.

"She runs the free clinic. It's all donation funded. Built inside a trailer, cleverest thing, goes where it's needed. Well, she helped me find this alternate route program? I gotta take a few general classes. Math and all that. Then I can decide if I wanna do education or nursing."

"Gonna work for the clinic?"

"Maybe. Sylvia's partner might have to leave. I could take her place. It would be a lot more interesting to travel around with her than to clean up after toddlers all day. Little bit like running away."

She puts her hand down on the counter and stares toward the other side where Clyde is making a martini, shoulders hunched in a posture of concentration. Ben chugs the last of his drink and puts his hand down as well. He brushes his pinky against Cora's and clears his throat, the heat of the muddled peppers in the bottom of the glass smacking him right in the uvula.

Cora's gaze slides toward their hands and she bites her lip. "Maybe one more drink and then -- "

"Cora Lee, what the _hell_ do you think you're doin'?"

Ben leans back and confronts the man who strides through the bar. "Who the fuck're you?"

It's obvious, really. He's got hair just like Cora, exact same shade and curl. An identical, painterly mouth. Is this the carpenter or the electrician?

Whichever he is, he ignores Ben. "Corrie, what're you thinkin' running around with this guy?"

"Oh, please, Ant. This big brother bullshit is so lame."

"If I could interject -- "

"No you may _not_ , you weaselly piece of -- "

Suddenly Clyde is there. He seems to have grown taller by inches, his shoulders rolled back and his chin tipped up. "Go home, Ant. Only one allowed to pick fights in this establishment is me."

Cora's brother purses his lips in a haughty way and sticks his chest out. "Corrie we're goin' home. _Now._ "

Cora hesitates, a frown turning her pretty lips down. "Dammit it, Ant." She slides off of the bar stool and leans in to place a gentle peck on Ben's cheek. "I hope you figure out where you're running away to, Ben."

He's baffled, feels like all he can do is smile sheepishly and nod. When did this excursion turn into a shitty _Lifetime_ movie? Sometime before they left the track, he remembers.

"What the fuck was that?" Ben asks when she disappears out the door.

Clyde laughs, a deep rumbly sound and puts a glass of water down in front of him. "There's eyes and ears all over this town, kid. One of Ant's buddies prob'ly tattled on you."

"Christ," Ben mumbles and chugs the water. "People really do that tough guy crap?"

Cylde purses his lips thoughtfully and shakes his head. "Nah -- I mean, yeah, they do -- but Miss Cora's more like... You know that book? With Darcy and Elizabeth?"

" _Pride and Prejudice_?" Ben asks with a tone of complete disbelief.

"Yeah, that. Cora's a bit like Georgiana. So, her brothers are a little protective. 'Specially with weird out-of-towners." Clyde smirks and turns to help a customer.

Ben is utterly confused -- by the show of brotherly machismo _and_ the random literary comparison. Was he the Wickham in this situation? Why would someone like Clyde have a reference like that in their back pocket, at all? Ben watches him laugh and fill glasses at the tap. He says something about a martini trick and how he won't do it tonight. There's something about the way Clyde interacts with people, how he's relaxed but seems like he's waiting for something terrible to happen, too, that Ben thinks is interesting.

"Ben? Hello! Ben?" He shakes his head, coming back to himself Clyde is waving a hand in front of him to get his attention. "Why don't you come around this side?"

"I... alright, I guess."

"Well, it is a little hard to talk when I gotta keep turning around. You're the only one over there." Clyde gestures at the rest of the bar. "You're the only single on singles' night, looks like."

Ben hesitates, the stack of dishes from his and Cora's meal still in front of him. Clyde waves it off and Ben takes his glass of water around the bar to plunk down on the empty stool beside the tap where Clyde hovers at the ready. "So, um, what is all this exactly?" Clyde is confused. "You like the community hang out or something? Keep everyone well hydrated with artisanal tropical drinks?"

"Oh, well. We had a bit of an emergency few months back. Roof got wrecked, basement all flooded out in a storm. We've been havin' things like this -- Cora planned a luau or ah... a tiki night, I guess. Lot of people in tacky tourist shirts and bathing suits. Place all covered in plastic flowers and that brown grass stuff. It was as terrible and offensive as it sounds. Had a couple'a these single people parties. Something different every week, we've got a big chunk of the repairs paid off with it."

"Your insurance didn't cover it?"

"Bah," Clyde makes a sour face. "They did everything they could to pay for the least possible. Insurance for a building is as much of a joke as insurance for a person." He waves his arm, glossy black plastic and shining metal.

"You own the place or something?"

Clyde laughs. "Nope, I just tend bar. Well, tend bar and get rid of troublemakers." He narrows his eyes at Ben while he fills a glass at the tap with something dark. The smile he casts on Ben is utterly disarming. "You ready to switch back to something a little stronger?"

"Are you keeping tabs on me?"

"You were a little pink. Thought you might need a break." Ben takes the glass and takes a sip. He doesn't know what brand it is but it's smooth and velvety. "So I guess you impressed her with your sword pictures."

"You wanna be impressed with 'em?"

Clyde shrugs. He drags a stool out from beneath the island in the middle of his work space and sits across from Ben. "So why are you really here, Ben? So far from home."

"Why do you care?"

"Isn't that what you city folk expect from bartenders? A free psychoanalysis?"

Ben shakes his head and sips his beer. "I just had to get away. It was either leave or do something really fucking stupid."

"I've done my share of stupid. I can understand that. My brother's usually involved." Ben asks just how stupid. Clyde laughs at himself while he talks. "Once, while ago now, this jackass race car driver came in here and started talkin' shit. Jimmy roughed him and his buddies up 'cause the shit was directed at me. And I thought, this totally split second decision, I'd teach 'em a damn lesson. Grabbed a bottle and set his damn flashy car on fire, molotov-style, you know? Scorch mark's still out in the parking lot."

"Guess I shouldn't piss you off, then."

"You got a fancy car?" Ben nods, moderately fancy. "Then I suggest not."

"Can I ask you something very blunt, Clyde?"

"I suppose so."

"Why the arm?"

"I was nearly at the airport, finishing my last tour in Iraq -- my very last day over there. Roadside mine exploded."

"Holy shit."

"That's what I said." A dark look passes over his features and disappears, makes the rumble in Clyde's voice seem like distant thunder. "It's the Logan family curse, somethin' terrible always happens right when things get good."

"I think that's kind of a thing for everyone. Self-fulfilling prophesies."

"No, this is particular to Logans. Always something life changin'," his tone shifts, "followed by somethin' life changing."

Ben nods, taking his word for it. "Were you always a bartender? You know, before?"

"Joined up out of high school, pretty much. Studied some while I was in training, online class, but I had no idea what I wanted to do with college so I stopped. Didn't really feel like I needed it and I didn't know computers so well so I wasn't doin' real hot, anyway. Could never get the hang of all those ridiculous message boards and community documents and nonsense. I did pretty well for myself in the army until the blast got me."

An older man who has as many wrinkles on his face as there are in the bark on a tree comes shuffling out of a shadowy nook Ben assumes is an employee area. "Clyde you take off now, ya hear? Free tap's closed in ten." Clyde glances at his watch and nods. He twists back around again as the old man is walking away, offering to clean up and close later on. "You opened today, did all the inventory. Besides, I can't afford to pay you anymore extra hours, you're bleedin' me goddamn dry, Logan."

Clyde puts his hands up in defeat and excuses himself. He takes a deep breath and speaks in a tone that bounces off the walls and clears the noise of the room. "Last call!"

The counter floods with people and Ben gets crushed against the glossy wood, trying to keep his own glass out of the way. When it finally calms down again the noise jumps a decibel, like everyone is trying to fit in last bits of conversation before the beer runs dry. Ben declines the offer of anything else and Clyde quickly goes through the process of emptying out glasses left on the counter and tipping the dishes from before into a pan. With the thing balanced on his hip, Clyde strides easily toward the kitchen and through the swinging doors, returning empty handed.

Ben has always felt like a jagged rock in the middle of a stream, water splashing up around his ears and beating against his back. Clyde seems more like a smooth stone on the riverbed.

Clyde grabs a pint glass full of bills from the other side of the tap and discretely counts them. He nods to himself and marks something in a notebook that gets stashed back in the register and slides the wad of cash into the wallet he takes from his back pocket. Ben watches him. There's a mark on his pocket, faded, in the shape of the wallet.

"Well, I guess you'll be headin' out again."

Ben chews his lip and watches Clyde settle back against the register with his arms folded. "Not really. I don't know the area, I don't have anyplace to go unless you can tell me where the nearest rest stop is."

Clyde tips his head back, chin pointed at Ben for a moment. "Wanna sit outside for a bit? I guess I'll wait and see if they really don't need me to help close."

Curious, Ben agrees.

Clyde guides him through the place and out the doors onto the porch. He eases himself into the empty chair, vacated hours ago after Ben first arrived. His knees audibly pop and he hisses and arches his back. "Standin' up all day only gets worse. I swear I feel like I'm ninety-five instead of thirty-five some nights."

Ben snorts and Clyde frowns mid-stretch. "I know the feeling, I'm getting to be middle aged in athlete years -- I'm twenty-five."

"Spring chicken." He grows quiet, legs stretched out and arms crossed. The silence stretches out, too.

"What's wrong?" Ben asks when he finally grows uncomfortable. A roar of laughter comes from inside the bar. "Did I say something?"

Clyde shifts like he's uncomfortable, too, jaw rolling and clenching. "I talk too much. I just realized how much I've been talkin' and I don't even know you to be talkin' like that."

"About... your arm? The army?" Ben laughs over the rest, "Blowin' up some guy's car?"

"The whole of it. I never used to talk much because I was always waiting to say something to provoke the curse. And then things started really turnin' around and I let my guard down and started flappin' my yap... and that was no good. Not at all."

"Do I wanna know?"

"You do not." Clyde seems unable to stop himself, though, now that he's started. Ben wonders if he sees the same faces day in and day out, if he's as bored with everything as Ben is in his own world. "Nearly got myself thrown in goddamn boilin' hot water. Sarah was just so... different. So interested -- interesting. So... not from around here." Clyde squints at Ben in the semi-darkness of the porch lamps. "Like you. I am a _fuckin'_ idiot."

"What did Sarah do?" Clyde squirms and Ben's teeth feel sharp. Cora was nice. Clyde is nicer.

"She was a federal agent. Came in and sat down right where you did, round the backside of the counter. Talkin' about it being bad luck to toast alone and puttin' a pair of Especial shots on her tab and askin' me to partake. She had me at hello. Said she was just passin' through, but hoped to stay a while. That damn way she smiled, made my gut drop like a teenager."

Ben pretends to sneeze to cover his laugh and Clyde blesses him. "What does that have to do with being a federal agent?"

"She was workin' me and I was too _love struck_ to see it. She was here to investigate, ah... a big robbery out at the track. Suspected us Logans -- but how the hell was I supposed to rob the track if I were locked up for puttin' my car through a storefront?"

"What?"

"My breaks failed," Clyde says like he's trying to make himself believe it. "Police didn't believe me, of course, because Logans are always tangled up in somethin', fightin' and whatnot."

"Setting cars on fire?"

"Only if you deserve it."

"Anyway, we were in bed and she was all soft and askin' me about my arm. Talking about how hard it is to get benefits from the government if you don't know all the forms and loopholes. How this thing," he raises the the prosthetic and the matte-black looks like velvet, "looked like it cost a pretty penny."

"Did it?"

"Uh huh. I explained that I'd made a good bet, came into some funds. Jimmy, my brother, that is, helped out some. Next thing I knew I was being hauled out of my home and into car and these movie-looking meatheads were interrogatin' me fer hours downtown at the police station."

The poe-lease. Ben smirks. "The curse?"

Clyde sighs. "I don't know, maybe. I'd thought we'd broken it, but i guess not."

"So, this curse -- "

"The Logan Luck."

"Yeah, is it just you and your brother? Unlucky bastards?"

Clyde shakes his head. "I'd thank you not to call us that, but no, not just us. Goes all the way back a hundred some-odd years to Logan Logan. Found the biggest diamond ever recorded in the country and let someone else take it from 'im. Been something terrible in every generation ever since. My baby sister Mellie's avoided it so far, God bless her. I intend to break the damn thing for her sake."

"You really take all of this seriously don't you?"

"Yes, I do. I firmly believe there are forces in this universe beyond our comprehension. They manifest in all sorts of ways; luck bein' one of 'em. Only way I can reason anything exists anyway. Whether you're a church goer or not, everything had to come from somewhere. Can't make somethin' outta nothin', that's just high school science."

"You're absolutely right." Ben thinks it's a little ridiculous, but he does have a point.

"Ben, can I ask you somethin' very blunt?"

"I guess, I owe you."

"You like women, right?" Ben nods, a little started by where he thinks the question is going. Suddenly, surprising himself, he hopes he's right. "Did I hear right... before, with Miss Cora -- you like men as well."

Ben's heart flutters and starts to jump around in his chest. Maybe he's wrong. He sits up straighter and tips his chin forward. His fingers curl into fists against his thighs of his own accord. He's not at home anymore. Clyde has at least thirty pounds on him. He won't just take it, though. "There a problem with that?"

"No, I -- I just haven't met anyone else like that before."

The statement flies over Ben's head before it makes a sharp U-turn back into his brain. Oh. He relaxes, forces his fingers to uncurl. His palm are sweaty. He wipes them against his jeans. "Yes. I like both. You do?"

Clyde fixes his gaze back out on the moonlit parking lot and presses his lips together, rolling them in. He takes a deep breath and nods. "I do."

Something warm and grasping slithers between Ben's ribs. "So how are you going to break the curse?"

Clyde sinks back into his seat again, shoulder and spine curved with a release of tension. He looks relieved to have asked and equally so that Ben changed the subject. "Well, I thought... I thought that good bet was the end of it. The other shoe didn't drop for so damn long, even Jimmy thought it was broken and he always yells at me when I talk about it -- doesn't wanna believe in it. But then Sarah happened, so I guess the other shoe did drop." He purses his lips so far they touch his nose. "In high school, I tried real hard to keep my nose clean. Jimmy had already gone and blemished it, you see. So I spent a lot of time in the school library during my free period... lotta time on the weekends at the public one. Looked up every damn thing about family curses I could possibly think of. In all my research there was just one that seemed real plausible. Most other cases were all real, ah, anecdotal? I think that's the word I'm lookin' for. I'm runnin' my mouth again, aren't I?"

Ben shakes his head, grinning. "No, I like it. Keep going."

"Naw, I'm borin' you with it. Everybody's always bored with it."

"No," Ben turns serious. "Really."

Clyde turns to him fully with an inscrutable look on his face and makes direct eye contact with Ben. "Are you a goddamn federal agent, too?"

They stare each other down for a good moment before they both snort and dissolve into laughter. "C'mon," Ben says. "Tell me."

"Alright, alright! So, there's this family. It's kind of unclear where they're from, they seemed to sort of just appear in history when this one guy -- Anakin, was his name --got bestowed some kinda lordship. Kinda like... you know that television show? The one with the girl and the dragons? Like he did somethin' and it was a reward. Suddenly he's got riches beyond his wildest dreams and land and a castle called _Mustafar_ and a whole little army at 'is command. And then shit just hit the fan. Wife dies under mysterious circumstance. Kids are taken and given as wards -- like the octopus kid goin' to live with the wolves -- to... to some other lords or... or distant relations. Family just splinters. Then years down the line, when Anakin's got this reputation as a bit of a warlord, his kids lead this resistance crusade against him. Some sources say that they knew it was their father and some say that their history was kinda kept a secret and it wasn't until later down the line when there was a bunch of land resettlement goin' on that they learned about it."

"And the curse?"

"Well, just generation after generation for hundreds of damn years just repeated this terrible cycle of just... risin' and fallin' over and over again in the best and worst possible ways."

"But did they break the curse?"

"I don't know. At some point there's just no more information on 'em. Like they dropped off the Earth. I've always thought maybe... maybe they figured it out. Maybe there's some pattern I'm just not seein' and if I could figure it out then I could put a stop to the Logan Luck."

"Somehow I can't picture you in a library."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know just... I guess because I've only seen you in there." Ben gestures toward the door. "I can't imagine you anywhere else." Clyde doesn't seem entirely satisfied with the answer. "Where did you find all this anyway? I thought you said you weren't good with computers."

"Books do still exist, Ben. Encyclopedias, old journals -- the kind researchers and professors write in -- microfiche, even." He breaks that last one down into purposeful syllables. "And if you're _real nice_ and you follow all their rules about bein' quiet and not hoggin' the tables or bringin' food into the reading rooms, the librarians even do half the work for you -- order over things from other branches even so you don't have to go travellin' around chasing after it."

"Holy shit," Ben chuckles.

"Holy shit, what?"

He shakes his head and shrugs. "You're just... a little bit amazing."

Clyde blushes so red that even his ears, just visible through his thick hair, change colors. His eyes slip to the side, look at the planks of the porch floor. "Most people don't wanna listen to it all. They think it's silly. I shouldn't've said so much."

"Not any sillier than, I don't know, obsessively watching every video of your next opponent you can find. Studying how they move their blade." Ben's voice drops low, whistling a little through his teeth. "Finding their weakness." He lets his fingertips inch across the bench. "The entire body's a valid target for the épée, you know. Lots of weaknesses to exploit."

Clyde breathes out heavily through his nose and his head whips around toward Ben. He starts to lean in and the door swings open. Clyde jumps a little and turns toward the racket. "Christ, George, is everythin' alright?"

"Oh, Clyde, thank God you're a stubborn ox who don't leave when he's told. Can you please move a new keg'a Bud to the front? One on there's nearly empty -- Suzanne Mills is complainin' the line is gurglin'."

"I called last call, George, why's anybody gettin' more? I was gonna change it out tomorrow, I knew it was on it's last legs."

"Yeah well, Suzanne Mills don't know how to breathe without a pint in her hand and I cannot deal with it. She ain't drivin' so I guess there's not much harm."

Clyde sighs and agrees to go back inside and move the keg. He stands, rolling his body up straight and stretching his arms over his head.

"I guess I'll get back on the road then," Ben says feeling a little defeated. "Do you know off the top of your head how far off there's a rest stop?" Clyde tells him what exit, unsure of the exact mileage. Ben reaches out to shake his hand. "Good luck with that curse."

"Good luck with the Olympics." _Oh-limp-icks._

Clyde disappears back inside and Ben sighs in frustration. He sits back down for a moment, scuffing his soles against the sturdy wooden planks of the porch floor. He gets up and bounds down the couple shallow stairs and picks his way across the parking lot to his car at a reluctant mosey. It's time to go home, he knows it. He's playing pretend. Playing the exotic stranger rolling through town and turning everyone's life upside down with his quick wit and his sardonic charm. It's exhausting, really, pretending he's at all interested in anything that anyone here has said.

"Ey, Runaway!" Ben turns on his heel, sending gravel kicking up against his shins and _plinking_ against the nearest car. "You come in here and help me with this god forsaken thing and I'll let you crash at my place. Continental breakfast included." _Con-tee-nental._

Ben jogs back toward the porch and up the stairs. This is absolutely how at least a dozen episodes of _Forensic Files_ start, he's sure. "This is okay?" he asks as he follows Clyde at a brisk pace through the bar and into the back of the house.

"Well, George is about three hundred years old, I certainly can't ask him to help. And Louie, the cook, he's got a bad back." He waves the prosthetic limb briefly. "And, well. Normally I could do it myself, it's not that hard to roll 'em, even the big ones. But the damn delivery driver has it out for me, I swear to you he's tryin' to literally kill me or embarrass me the fuck to death."

Clyde holds the door to the storage room open and cool air flows out of it. Ben sees the problem immediately. All of the new kegs have been stacked halfway to the ceiling along the back wall, all shiny and silver and uniform. "How the hell did he even do that?"

"I don't know. Sheer force of _spite_ , I assume. And of _course_ the Budweiser is on the bottom. I swear I'm gonna kick him right in the pants the next time he shows his face around here."

They make awkward work of it, Ben up on a step stool and Clyde holding him steady while he shimmies the topmost keg toward himself. They get the first one to the floor without dropping it and the rest seem to go a little easier.

Clyde's hands are surprisingly gentle, as if he is unsure of his strength. He holds Ben's hips while he reaches for the kegs up high. The top row is smaller, Clyde explains while he shifts one out of Ben's arms, because they're specialty beers. They don't sell in as high volume as good old Bud. Ben can see the muscle of Clyde's shoulders shift as he moves the kegs, gripping one handle and supporting and guiding the bulk of the cylinder with the black shell of his opposite forearm.

Clyde likes them, he says with a smile, they're a small taste of the outside world. Ben agrees. Clyde's cheeks color for just a moment and he raises a brow and jerks his chin up toward the rows of shiny barrels.

Ben wobbles on the stool as he reaches for the next keg. He swings his arms out for balance and nearly tips backward. "No you don't," Clyde mutters and instantly his hands are there holding Ben's hips, his shoulder shoved up against Ben's backside. "Sorry," Clyde mutters. 

"Aren't you not supposed to roll those things?" Ben can remember some fratboy shouting at another at one of the dozens of mindless parties he drifted through at school. His heart is fluttering in his chest, accelerated by the little jolt of adrenaline and Clyde's closeness.

"How else do you propose that I get them from here to there? They're too heavy for me to carry even if they got handles. Besides, I make sure they settle a few hours 'fore I hook 'em up."

A hand-truck doesn't seem unreasonable. Ben lifts the finally liberated keg at the bottom of the stack and almost immediately sets it down again. It's unexpectedly heavy, a little larger than the others. There must be hundreds of pints inside. "Clyde are you single?"

"Well -- I -- yes."

Ben puts his hands on his hips and stares hard at the keg. "So why don't you go out there? It sounds like they're all havin' fun. And you're -- well, you're -- _you're..._ "

"I'm what?"

"Interesting. Attractive."

"Ben there is not a single _single_ out there under the age of retirement. I am not interested in some soppy May-December romance."

Ben can't help but laugh.

"Who else do you think comes to these sort of things? It's just an excuse for a night out for all the divorced blue-haired ladies spendin' their pension checks from their jobs at the municipal clerk's office." Clyde scuffs his toe across the floor. "You're just being nice and that's kind of mean."

"I am not! I'm not nice at all."

Clyde snorts, amused. His cheeks are turning pink again. His forehead has gone splotchy. "Jimmy was always the ladykiller. Football star, you know? I'm the obsessive with the big ears."

"Bullshit." Ben barks out his amusement. "Clyde you -- " He never finishes the statement, let alone the thought. Clyde's big hand is on the back of his neck and Clyde's wide mouth is against his. Clyde's warmth soaking into his chest makes him shiver against the cool air of the storage room against his back. "Oh, fuck."

"I'm sorry," Clyde mumbles against his lips, forehead pressed to Ben's. "That was uncalled for."

"No, don't be sorry." Ben kisses him back, hands tangling in Clyde's hair to keep him close. Ben is breathless and laughing when he pulls away. "You sure you wanna?"

"Yeah."

Ben kisses across the neat scruff of Clyde's lip and chin, over his jaw and under his chin. Clyde's fingers grip the front of Ben's shirt tight, yanking the collar down. The solid weight of his other hand sits nicely against Ben's hip. Ben touches Clyde's shoulders -- his back -- digs his fingers into Clyde's hips and finds them soft and fleshy beneath the smooth fabric of his tucked-in shirt. Clyde's chest fills in a heaving breath and he nudges Ben's forehead with his chin until they are mouth-to-mouth again. Ben looks him square in the eye and slides his hand from Clyde's hip to his crotch. Clyde breathes out in a _whoosh_ that makes Ben's hair tickle across his forehead and against his ears. He looks unsure, jaw tightening and lips pinching together. Ben freezes, watching the decision work across Clyde's brow.

Clyde's hips curl forward into Ben's touch and his hand relaxes and falls, finding purchase against Ben's backside. He's muttering something and Ben can hardly understand it, his focus to zeroed in on the warmth of Clyde's thighs against the back of his hand. Clyde presses himself closer, drawing their bodies flush together with Ben's arm trapped between them. "Are you clean?"

" _Fuck_ \-- am I what?" His brain isn't firing as quick as it should, he knows.

"You're... you're not -- you haven't got... Are you clean?"

"Yeh -- " Before Ben can process the motion Clyde is sinking to his knees. He's too close, pushing Ben back without meaning to. Ben stumbles and kicks the keg he put down. Clyde yanks at his belt and Ben tries to help, only making it more difficult. Finally the buckle slaps against his thigh and his zipper is down and Clyde is reaching for his cock and Ben is shoving his jeans and his underwear down on his hips. "Oh god?"

"You askin' permission or forgiveness?" Ben tries to laugh and there isn't enough in his lungs for it. He sticks a hand in Clyde's hair instead and chokes on his own tongue at the feel of Clyde's against his head.

Ben swears and pulls Clyde's hair and he hardly seems to mind. His left hand is steady and constant against Ben's thigh. He draws his lips back and off and smears the width of them against the length of Ben's cock. His lips are warm against Ben's skin, his breath hot and wet, the hand stroking his cock in tentative pulls even warmer. With Clyde's face so close, Ben thinks briefly that he should have trimmed his hair -- shaved his belly at least. He laughs and covers his face with the crook of his arm. Ben chokes on breath, Clyde's wet mouth on him again, his tongue pressing against the most sensitive point as he sucks.

"Clyde, you got that handled?" an unfamiliar voice calls out from beyond the storage room door.

Clyde pulls off abruptly, sputtering and coughing. "Yeah! Yes! Fine! I got it!"

"You don't need help?"

"No! _No!_ Don't need help!" Clyde shakes his head and begins to rise with a bit of difficulty. "Shit," he mutters. " _Shit_." He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and strides toward the door. Ben ducks to the side of a shelf heavy with slightly dusty bottles of liquor. Clyde opens the door and confers with whomever is on the other side, his voice light and jovial.

He steps back and the door swings shut with a click. Ben is standing there, bewildered and holding himself, his face red-hot.

"What the fuck'm I doing?" Clyde asks as if Ben might have an answer.

Ben can hardly speak above a whisper. "I'll I get out of here. I don't want you to --"

"Put -- put yourself back together. I'll get this out there. Backdoor's right there, go ahead out. I'll catch up."

"What?" Ben groans, shoving his cock down behind his fly and closing his belt with trembling hands.

"We'll go... we'll go back to my place." Clyde talks while he's propping the door open and tipping the keg onto the edge of its rim. "I said you could crash if you helped, didn't I?" He smiles sheepishly over his shoulder and starts to roll the keg out the door.

Alone in the storage room, Ben's brain stalls. Mind moving like molasses, he stumbles out of the storage room turns sharply toward the glowing exit sign. He trips down the short ramp to the gravel of the lot and moves purpose toward the front of the building where his car is parked. He fumbles with the key fob, trying to unlock the doors. In the driver's seat he squirms and smacks the wheel. His dick is throbbing with his heartbeat. He presses his palm into his crotch and jerks his hips, trying desperately to gain some kind of relief.

"Fuck!" he shouts at no one and nothing in particular. In his peripheral vision, he catches movement in the side-view mirror. Clyde is bounding down the steps from the porch. Ben starts the car hastily and swings it around out of the space. 

With a miraculous degree of nonchalance, he asks if Clyde has his own car here. He doesn't, he tells Ben. His sister is borrowing it. She was meant to come retrieve him at the end of his shift.

"Shouldn't you call her or something then?"

"She'll be fine." He slides into the passenger's seat that just a few short hours ago Cora was sitting in to direct him here. He fills the space with his long legs and his wide shoulders. He rests his elbow against the center console. He turns toward Ben with a confused look. "Do you want me to drive?"

"What? No, no. Just... just tell me where to go."

Ben grips the wheel and relaxes again. Clyde's voice is smooth and low, so much more pleasant to listen to than the automated tone of the GPS. He points out far fewer interesting spots than Cora did, doesn't let him know where someone crashed a quad and knocked out all their front teeth. Ben lets a hand rest on the gear shift, his elbow bumping against Clyde's arm. He flicks his eyes away from the empty road for just a second.

Clyde shifts, fingers just briefly stroking the back of Ben's arm. He sighs like he wants something more and apologizes for the fingertip that gets caught in the hem of Ben's sleeve. 

At a red light, hazy in the dewy humidity of the night, Ben slides the gear into park and leans across the console to bury his face in the crook of Clyde's neck. He wants to live there in the lush wave of Clyde's hair and the smoothness of his well-worn shirt collar and the slight stickiness of his skin -- just barely scented with sweat under the atmospheric perfume of booze from the bar. Ben reaches over and squeezes Clyde's thigh and he makes a sound that bypasses Ben's brain and goes straight to his dick, waking up every nerve in his pelvis that the drive had lulled to sleep.

Clyde breathes heavily. "Ben, please, wait."

"What if I don't wanna wait?" He slides his hand higher and palms at Clyde's crotch. "What if I want you to finish what you started right now?"

"The light's green," he whispers. A tremor runs through him. "The light, Ben -- that was stupid of me. That could have ended badly -- it's green -- green's go -- you got some other system up in New Jersey? Fuck." Clyde squeezes his thighs together, pinning Ben's hand. "Go straight until the next light and make a left."

"Fine," Ben mutters. He throws the car into drive and leans on the gas, his hand still resting on Clyde's thigh. He's lucky, he thinks. People he'd love to have in bed keep getting into his car. People with nice mouths and nicer thighs.

It's dark and golden under the street lamps on the block that Clyde directs him down. It's full of houses that seem like they were all built from the same box of Legos on identical little square plots of land. Ben guesses which is Clyde's before he's told -- C. LOGAN stenciled in neat, bright white letters on the mailbox. Clyde waves him into the driveway and then swears and corrects himself. "I didn't move in too long ago, I always forget which side is mine." He apologizes, a little flustered. "Mellie says you can still smell the fresh paint in the neighborhood." Ben backs out and pulls into the driveway on the other side of the house, raising a brow in request of confirmation.

"Hey, Clyde!" Someone shouts from across the street as they duck out of the car. "How'd Singles' Night go? Them old birds tip you well?"

Clyde waves back and wishes them goodnight.

"Who's your friend?"

"Ah, army buddy! Just passin' through. Crashing on the couch -- couldn't see him trying to get a hotel this time of night."

"Well, good on you. Thank you, gentlemen! I'm sure you don't hear that often enough!" Clyde cringes visibly. The person waves and Clyde lifts Ben's duffle bag out of the trunk when it pops open. Ben grins to himself and lets Clyde lead the way up the neatly paved front walk and up the two steps of the narrow porch. He can be a dirty little secret.

"So what unit was I in?" Ben teases, standing too close to Clyde while he fumbles with his keys in the lock.

"The _shut the hell up_ unit." The lock finally clicks and the door swings wide open. Clyde slips inside quickly and shuts the door behind Ben. He gasps, his shoulders hitting the door and Ben's hands on him. "You were a terrible idea, Runaway." Clyde's lips belie the notion, eagerly meeting Ben's.

Ben isn't sure anymore whether he wants Clyde's mouth back on his cock or to have him bent over the couch-like shape he could see in the street lights as they came through the door. " _Mm_ , I'm gonna make it so good for you -- _fuck_ \-- you'll wish you tried it sooner... found me sooner."

Clyde has the nerve to _laugh_. Ben is appalled. He draws back with the wet sound of lips-on-lips and gives Clyde a stern look. His eyes sparkle in the sliver of light that manages to creep in past the curtains. "Are you under the impression that I am some blushin' virgin?"

"Well, _yeah_." Clyde laughs again, harder this time, and rests his forehead against Ben's shoulder. Ben feels like he should be more offended, but Clyde's laugh is so... nice. "You said you never met someone."

Clyde clears his throat and presses a teasing little kiss against Ben's neck. His cheek is warm. "I said I never met someone else who likes both. Bisexual. At least someone who admitted to it -- wasn't quiet about it. I've been with men."

"No, you haven't."

Evidently the embarrassment that blooms in Ben's throat is audible. "Are you disappointed? Did you think you were going to deflower me?"

" _Pfft._ Deflower." Clyde looks back up at him, tilting his head back against the door and gazing coyly down the length of his nose. "Maybe."

"I'm sorry to let you down."

"I suppose I can forgive you."

Clyde closes his eyes and smiles softly, his lip curling just a bit when Ben rubs himself into his body. He lets Ben unbutton his shirt right there at the door, helping Ben untuck it and then swatting him away to shake it off of his arms. Ben can't follow the motion he makes to pull the tee shirt underneath up over his head and then it's on the floor, anyway, so it doesn't matter. 

Ben's stomach flip-flops like he's some idiot teenager with a crush. Clyde is soft and solid. Just like Ben felt in the car, he _takes up space_. Fills the door. He asks Ben what's wrong and there's really everything right. Ben has _got_ to get his hands on every bit of Clyde that he possibly can as fast as possible, but if he does that he can't just _look_. There's a neat medallion on Clyde's forearm, bold and dark against ivory skin. There are more dark shapes that Ben can't really make out in the non-existent lighting. Something is there, wrapping around his side. Ben decides right then and there that if it's some eagles and flags bullshit that he's walking out as soon as he sees for sure. Clyde licks his lips and breathes in deep, filling his chest and pushing himself into Ben's selfishly searching hands.

"How do you like it?" Ben asks. Clyde's arms settle around him -- warm and fleshy around his waist and cool and smooth heavy across his shoulders. "In the bedroom with the lights off? On the kitchen counter?" He lets Clyde kiss him for several heartbeats. "Look at each other?"

"You like to be in control of everything, don't you?"

"You catch on fast, don't _you_?" Ben's hands wander, fingertips pushing into the bulk of Clyde's shoulders and the weight of his hips. He jams a hand down into the back of Clyde's jeans and he hisses and tries to wiggle away. Ben's sloppy about it, groping with his fingertips to reach flesh. "You have condoms, right? I don't fuck without them." Often, at least. With strangers. He should be more careful, really. What better time to start?

Clyde nods and mumbles something into Ben's neck, dipping him back just fractions and tightening his hold around Ben's body. Ben gasps, startled as he starts to lose his footing, back bent like a ballroom dancer. Clyde's hair is tickling his face, falling in a slightly sweaty curtain around his chin while Clyde keeps on at his throat. Ben lifts a leg, locking his foot behind Clyde's knee and suddenly both feet are off the floor and he has no choice but to cling with his knees around Clyde's waist. Ben feels breathless and nervous. This isn't what he imagined.

"I thought you couldn't lift," he titters.

"You don't have a hundred an' sixty-four pints sloshin' around in you." Clyde shifts and Ben moves rapidly upright. "You got limbs. I don't have't struggle with dumb handles. You can help." Ben forgets the weirdness of being lifted like some girl in a shitty romcom and lets himself enjoy it. Clyde's arm around his waist is so solid -- Clyde's waist is so thick, his chest so warm though Ben's tee shirt. "Would you rather I rolled you in'na the bedroom?"

Clyde laughs and clears the living room in a few long strides, his steps sure and quick even with Ben gathered up against him. It's not a large room anyway, Ben thinks, he shouldn't be so impressed. He gets dropped onto the bed in a rather undignified manner, bouncing on the mattress. Ben sits up, reclining on his elbows in the most casually alluring way he can think of, toes brushing the stiff carpet at the foot of the bed. Clyde grins and stoops over to yank his boots off. There's little ceremony in the stripping. He uses both hands quick and efficiently, his poise totally different than it was in the bar. _Confident_. He wears briefs, black and snugly fit, under the well-worn jeans. There's another dark pattern just visible on the back of his calf when Clyde leans down and lifts his foot to yank off his sock.

Clyde is naked, Ben realizes slowly. Gloriously so, even in the darkness. Clyde hesitates and takes a stumbling step backward toward the bedroom door while Ben gawks. He reaches out blindly to the side and brushes at the wall for the light switch. It's not bright, but it's sudden when it turns on and blinds Ben nonetheless. Clyde's mouth flattens into limbo between a smile and a frown and his brows come together. He rolls his shoulders back. His hands hang at his side but not uselessly.

"Come here," Ben rasps.

Clyde's skin is _so soft_. It's tacky with the day's sweat in an attractive, worn-in way. He's pale and and bright, a sparse, soft play of hair across his chest to match what's on his arms and thighs and... and Ben can't wait to have all of Clyde underneath him.

Clyde laughs softly with Ben's lips against his stomach. He whispers for Ben to _stop that_ when he bites and runs one warm hand through Ben's hair. Ben leans his chin against Clyde's belly, looking up through his lashes and lifting his brow to innocently devilish effect. He insinuates a hand between them, runs his fingers over Clyde's soft cock. Clyde watches him with almost neutral interest, lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn't know exactly what. Ben wraps his fingers around it, tugging gently and relishing the feel of his skin and how it rolls so easily over his head. Half hard, Ben ducks and fits as much as he dares into his mouth, lazily cockwarming for an indulgent moment.

Ben is excited about the flesh on his tongue -- shorter than his, he thinks, but more _there_. It fits Clyde better than what his porn-prejudiced brain might have dreamt up. Clyde tenses his belly and thighs and chokes on an anxious little sound. Ben pulls back and sinks forward, giving more earnest effort. He hazards a glance upward and Clyde's head is thrown back, his throat exposed and the notch of his Adam's apple prominent with it. He twitches his hips and Ben chokes in surprise. Cool, hard fingers stroke over Clyde's stomach and across Ben's cheek while he sucks. Clyde raises his arm to cover his face, stretching his torso impossibly longer. 

Jaw stiff and chin wet, Ben pulls away breathless. "Can I touch you?" he asks with caution, gliding his fingers up the side of Clyde's thigh and resting them in the flexed dimple of his backside. Clyde doesn't look at Ben but nods. Walking his fingers across the heavy muscle and brushing them down through the warm cleft, this is the most fun he's ever had clothed, Ben thinks, if the last Grand Prix didn't count. Ben shivers and retracts his hand, sucking his fingers to wet them, thinking of the solid sound of his opponent's blade falling and hitting the mat. The second most fun, then. He shifts, hard in his jeans after such extended neglect, and slips his slick fingers behind Clyde again, wasting no pretense on his intentions and pressing gently against his hole.

"Go ahead," Clyde groans, finally looking down at Ben again. He shifts his feet, legs relaxing by fractions. His heavy hand finally lifts off of Ben's head to stroke himself. Bold with the flush on his cheeks and Ben's fingertip inside of him, he smears his cock across Ben's lips until they are open again. Ben works, ducking low as Clyde slowly doubles over with a whole finger inside of himself. Mouth wet and sloppy against the side of Clyde's cock and face cradled against his pelvis, Ben feels lightheaded. The warmth that Clyde radiates is overwhelming.

Clyde holds Ben's elbow and asks him to stop. "I don't want to yet." Ben's cheek is sticky with _yet_. Clyde sways on his feet and blinks at Ben, hissing at the withdraw. He hooks his fingers into the collar of Ben's shirt. "Get you outta these," he mumbles.

Ben can't help but be annoyed at the extra hands trying to rid him of his shirt. Finally, he leans back and away to pull it over his head. Clyde pulls off his shoes while he wiggles his jeans and underwear down his hips and then everything is in a pile on the floor, their clothes all intermingled there at the foot of the bed. Clyde crowds him, putting a knee on the mattress and giving Ben no choice but to lie back. His mouth is everywhere, Ben's chest and his shoulders and his throat. His hips and shoulders roll like a predator as he moves and settles himself on top of Ben, covering him bodily. His cock between them drips, a thin spindle of fluid stretching between it and Ben's stomach.

Ben's brain has truly gone to mush. Clyde's not _that_ good. It's the heat of the day and the furnace-like body on top of him and the booze and the exhaustion and all of the bullshit that brought him to North _fucking_ Carolina that's finally getting to him. That's why he lets Clyde hook his knees and lever them up, why he feels insignificant and narrow beneath Clyde's bulk -- like he's some heavenly body with his own gravity, stealing all of Ben's mass. 

Ben's comfortable with his legs wrapped around Clyde's solid waist, like they're the perfect length for it and he's the perfect width for it. He can't think about the way that Clyde's heavy cock slides beside his, both hard, both sticky with need. Clyde's mouth is nice against his. It's nice on his cheek and his chin and his tongue is so wet against his ear that Ben laughs out loud, thinking he'll have swimmer's ear before the night is out.

"I'm gonna fuck you now," Ckyde rumbles. Ben laughs again. That wasn't the plan. "What's so funny?"

Ben catches his breath, calms himself. A change of plans could be nice. He nods and pulls Clyde's face against his for an inexpert kiss. "Do it," he mumbles. "Do it right now."

Clyde shifts and stretches toward the nightstand. "You want the light off?" He pauses, half on his knees and a skinny little pink-labeled bottle in one hand. Ben considers it a moment and looks Clyde over. He shakes his head. "Good," he says in hardly a whisper.

Ben watches him move things uselessly in the drawer for a moment. He finally shuffles back on his knees. The bottle of lubricant rolls toward Ben with the shifting of the mattress. Clyde swallows and holds out the foil packet. "Do you want to?"

Ben's chest goes hot with blush and he takes the foil by way of answer. He feels totally ignorant and inexperienced ripping the packet open. With hands that feel like they aren't his own he tries to fit the rubber over the head of Clyde's cock backward. He huffs and takes it off and apologizes, annoyed with himself. Clyde asks if he's changing his mind and he scoffs. _Who does he think he is?_ Watching Ben like this, kneeling there on the foamy mattress with his hips pitched forward and the soft little roll of his belly sucked in. Clyde's hand lands on the back of Ben's neck, cool and smooth, the matte texture of the fingertips interesting against his increasingly clammy skin. Clyde pulls him in for a kiss and it distracts Ben enough to remember that his hands are his own. He rolls the condom on, anticipation bubbling in his chest. The bottle of lube rolls around as they shift on the mattress, their weight making the structure dip back and forth.

"How about you do that?" Clyde croons. He's flagged just a little and strokes himself, eyes on Ben. 

Ben has never fingered himself open in front of a partner before. It's too personal, too intimate. The thought terrifies and excites him in equal measure. He'll never see Clyde again, this weird big man from nine hours down the I-95.

His neck and chest completely red, splotches of color creeping down his stomach and making his dark hair look even darker -- _goddamnit_ why didn't he shave? -- he elbows his way back toward the thin pillows at the head of the bed. Knees drawn up and hand full of lube, he strokes himself and avoids Clyde's gaze. He plants his feet on the mattress and reaches down, twisting his shoulders for the right angle. He's grateful when Clyde crawls forward to kiss him again -- and again -- and again. He slides a finger inside of himself, not without effort, and then a second. He apologizes, an uncharacteristic impulse, when he withdraws his hand and smears lube that's gone tacky across Clyde's hip.

"It's fine," Clyde assures him.

Both hands are on Ben's body, pushing him onto his side and then pressing him down onto his belly. The contrast is wild with his lit-up nerves and hot skin. The more Clyde touches him, the warmer both hands feel against him.

"You gonna fuck me or what?" Ben grumbles into the pillow.

When Clyde pushes in it's like his brain short-circuits. There are fireworks exploding against the back of his skull and he wonders why he ever thought that he'd prefer this any other way. Clyde's body is so heavy on top of him. He feels short of breath. Clyde's so solid and warm and the mass of him is so strangely malleable. Ben swears in an increasingly creative string as Clyde moves.

It's enough until it isn't and he can't help himself when he says, "Come _on_." Clyde levers himself up from his elbows to his hands and snaps his hips forward. Ben moans into the pillow. "Fuck, like _that_ , fuck."

Clyde moves so fluidly. He keeps a quick pace, smacking his hips against Ben's ass over and over again. It's good, so much sensation and so immediate. Clyde slows down and lowers himself like he needs a break. Wet lips and smooth teeth graze over Ben's shoulders and the back of his neck. Fingers grip at his hair and make him turn his head until Clyde's mouth can reach his and it's less like a kiss and more like Ben is being eaten.

_It's great._

Ben is almost annoyed when Clyde sits up and pulls out then suddenly he's being hoisted back away from the pillows and his hips hefted into the air. It's a relief to have Clyde inside him again. One hand lays _just so_ on the small of his back and the other grips the fold of flesh at the bend of his hips like it's a damn handle. Ben struggles to keep his knees under himself. He's delighted at Clyde's force -- the force of hips and feel of his cock -- and how he holds Ben in place with no effort. Clyde seems to take care with the hand on his back, keeping his touch light in the absence of tactile feedback. The hand holding his hip is a different story entirely. It grips firmly. Well shaped, short nails dig little crescents into his skin.

With his cheek against the mattress, Ben can't do much more than go along for the ride. He wants to lash out, to take control back, each time his lips smear open across the top sheet with the force of Clyde's hips. He doesn't. It's too good. Too different, strange, nice.

His body is beginning to ache -- his back and his hole hurting in the most sweet way. The ache in his neck isn't quite as nice. The sound Clyde makes when Ben tries to rise onto all fours again is thrilling, a whine and a growl all at once. Ben settles for his elbows, planting his forehead. He gasps and blushes, feeling the warmth in his ears. He can see Clyde's legs between his own, how his thighs flex. He can see his own cock, ignored and _so hard_ and his brain remembers that it belongs to him. It throbs, jerking and smacking his belly, and a clear drop falls from his slit. The thin filament of it sways, caught between his cock and the mattress for a moment before it snaps.

Ben is filled with an overwhelming need for relief. He shifts again and Clyde grunts. He's pounding into Ben just a tick faster. With his shoulders twisted and his cheek pressed into the mattress again, Ben reaches beneath himself to grab at his cock. He misses, body jerking with Clyde's movement, and whines in dismay. His fingertips brush his head and he trembles. A light breeze could pass over him and he'd come. He strokes himself fast, completely without finesse. He doesn't need it to last, doesn't want it to. Behind him Clyde is shaking -- Ben can feel it in Clyde's legs against his own.

"C'mon," Ben spits into the sheets. His fist flies over his cock, he's _so close_. "Come in me, _fuck_."

They don't come together. Ben's glad for it. How utterly cliché would that have been? A useless sentimentality. Ben holds his flagging erection like he needs to protect it while Clyde's hips smack hard against him. He can feel the flesh of his ass and his thighs wobble with each strike. Clyde pushes into him, pushing him so hard against the mattress Ben thinks his spine might never be the same. Clyde makes a sound through pressed-together lips and swears loud enough that it echoes in the sparsely furnished bedroom.

To his credit, Clyde collapses beside Ben rather than on top of him. He stares with glassy eyes at the ceiling, his chest heaving. He's splotchy and red, his face an endearing shade of pink that flows over his throat and across his chest and stomach. Ben eases himself down, worm-like and snickering. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Everything."

"You came." Ben nods. "Sorry I didn't..."

Ben swipes at the sweaty hair sticking to Clyde's cheeks and forehead. "It's fine. It was good."

Clyde nods, his brow coming together in a serious crinkle. He raises his hand like he's going to do something and it just hangs there in the air for a moment. Ben finally gets a decent look at the ink on his forearm, a mean looking skull in a little cap. It looks military, which he supposes makes sense. The hand drops slowly until his fingertips gently touch his sternum. He glances at Ben without moving his head. His lips turn up into a tiny smile. His lids droop like his dark lashes are too heavy to hold up.

"No you don't," Ben whispers, scooting closer. He drags his hip through the wet spot on the sheets and it doesn't even bother him. He shifts up and over, a knee between Clyde's lazily splayed legs, so that the skin-warmed tips of his hard fingers skim Ben's ribs and settle against him. He leans down and kisses Clyde with every last bit of enthusiasm he can muster. He's exhausted but -- he'll never have Clyde again, will he? Making the most of the night is the only thing that makes sense in the hazy fire of his neurons. "Come on, just a rest. I'm so much better with my hands when there's real lube."

Clyde snorts and gently pushes Ben away. He cranes his neck forward and sucks in his stomach to see what he's doing. There's a practiced movement and the condom is off. He makes a face at it and sits up with a groan. It goes into a tissue that appears somewhere from near the floor, out of Ben's sight, and get pitched into the trash. Ben watches him move, the play of muscle beneath his soft flesh as he steps across the room to the clothes hamper for a towel. He wipes himself down and turns back to the bed. He smacks Ben's thigh like he might a lazy pet, a gentle _patpatpat_ that sounds louder for being skin-to-skin.

"Move," he says in a tired tone and yanks the top sheet halfheartedly from beneath Ben when he refuses. With the sheet balled up and chucked into the hamper Clyde sits back down on the edge of the bed. "I gotta.. um --" Without turning, he raises his hand. His back and shoulders tense.

"Can I help you?"

"No."

"Do you want me to go?" Ben doesn't hide the reluctance he feels.

"No, I just... Didn't want ya'da be alarmed 'er. You know." Ben shakes his head even though Clyde can't see it. "It's fancy but it's not like I can wear it 'round the clock."

Ben looks away. He feels like he's intruding on something extremely private. There are a number of clicks and Clyde swears quietly. He sighs and there are more clicks and then the clatter of the prosthetic limb as he lays it on the bed beside himself. Ben watches him roll something off of his arm and slide it inside the limb. The peg on the end of the wobbly looking sleeve clacks against the inner workings of the arm.

Clyde sits there for a moment, rubbing his arm now that it's free like he's rubbing pins and needles after a long day. He rises and collects the prosthetic, sets it down on the dresser. He turns to Ben just like when he first undressed, chest forward and shoulders squared.

"Do you need a blanket? I don't really use 'em much." Ben shakes his head and Clyde flips the switch on the wall. Swallowed in darkness, he crawls back into bed and flops down on his stomach. "Night," he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the corner of Ben's mouth.

Ben doesn't hold on to consciousness much longer.

The sound of birds screaming outside the window behind the bed wakes him. The gauzy curtain billows out in a warm breeze that promises the heat of the summer and smells like what dryer sheets wish they were.

Ben is sore when he sits up. He blames the crick in his neck on inadequate pillows, missing his nest at home. He snorts, his movement making the bottle of lube roll between him and the warm body in the bed beside him. He picks it up and brushes his leg, something stuck there -- the damn packet from the rubber. The nightstand drawer is still open and Ben leans over to chuck it inside. There's not much else there. His own is full of junk, odds and ends from his pockets. Clyde's it utilitarian -- another condom, a small toy that screams of the _Beginners_ tab on some new-age website. Ben closes the drawer, uncharacteristically embarrassed.

He stretches and yawns and looks down at Clyde, still sleeping. It's not often that Ben _spends the night_. It feels strange. There's the office Hux shares with the other Adjuncts, during periods he had it to himself. There's hundreds of anonymous hotel rooms during tournaments of all sizes and levels of competition. There's bathrooms and cars and the back row of a movie theater once when the space opera he and his date had gone to see was just not doing it for either of them. Never a bed in a home with a _person_.

Clyde is a stomach sleeper. He looks serene. The wrinkles in his forehead are totally smooth and his mouth is relaxed. His arms are tucked under his pillow, under his head. His hair is a wild, tangled cloud.

Ben wants to touch him, just to confirm that he's real. He settles for sitting all the way up and stretching, his back popping as he leans toward his toes. He keeps looking at Clyde, the solid mass of him fascinating and intimidating. There's a tattoo on his right calf -- a mermaid stretched in a luxuriant pose, sitting poised in the cradle of a horseshoe. Ben thinks it should probably be an anchor and wonders if it was a mistake, Clyde's or the artist's.

"You can stop lookin' now," Clyde mumbles from the pillow and turns his face just enough to raise a brow at Ben. "You gonna stay for breakfast?"

"Can I?"

Clyde nods, eyes drifting closed again. He's quiet for a moment and then a foot rises from the bed and waves toward the shadow of the hall outside. "Bathroom's that way if you need it. Just give me a minute."

Satisfied like a cat with a canary, Ben lays back down, pressing himself along Clyde's side. He wakes again to what his subconscious mind has painted across his dreams as a distant, heavy sun-shower. When he opens his eyes the bed is empty, just the imprint of Clyde's body beside him. His face is pressed into the pillow Clyde had occupied. It smells slept in over some long-faded laundry soap. He realizes that the rain is actually the sound of the shower running. With a body that creaks and pops he hauls himself out of bed and follows the sound.

The house is small. Ben can see the living room across from the bed. He can see his bag sitting on the floor near the door and the rumpled mess of Clyde's shirt where they'd been left the night before. There are two doors in the shallow little hall. One Ben assumes in a closet. The other is ajar, the humidity of the shower pouring out of the space. A gravelly voice rises just barely above the running water. 

"--don't you smile on me, I don't feel like bein' com-for-ted. And anyway, I'll be home soon. For once someone's waitin' there..."

Clyde trails off, humming, and Ben slips into the room. He can't quite see through the plain white plastic of the curtain but he imagines Clyde ducking under the water to soak his hair. Carefully, so as to not let the water out onto the floor, Ben steps inside. Clyde doesn't startle to find Ben behind him and Ben is a little disappointed. He could picture the surprised way that Clyde's brow would rise and his mouth would purse. Ben crowds him under the spray.

"What are you doin', Runaway?"

"Conserving water."

"Are you, now?"

"Mhmm." He reaches around Clyde toward the single item on the ledge of the tub. The green bottle is emblazoned with _Irish Spring 5-in-One_ and Ben is horrified. "No, you don't really?"

"I don't really what?"

"Wash everything with just this?"

"Why not?"

"You're a liar, your hair is too nice."

Clyde looks Ben dead in the eye and presses the pump down into his palm. He smears the heavily scented soap into his hair and works it in with his fingers until there are bubbles running down across his chest. A little furious, Ben presses him back behind the spray with a palm against his chest so that he might stand under the hot pound of the water for a moment. The kissing feels intuitive. The renewed burning of his sun-soaked nose and ears under the assault of the shower does not deter him.

Clyde is as possessive in the light of day as he is in the dark. His heavy arm around Ben's shoulders and his big, calloused hand on his ass are something Ben thinks he could get used to. Ben tugs at Clyde's cock almost absently, hands seeking out something to do with for wont of pockets or belt or blade hilt to fiddle with.

"I'm not fuckin' you here," Clyde rumbles. "Water's like the goddamn anti-lube." Ben snorts and denies that's where his motivation lies. He suggests Clyde might turn around and gets an amused snort in response. "Why the hell d'you think that's gonna go any different?"

"Are you always this stubbornly logical?" Except where curses and luck are concerned, Ben thinks, if his memory of the previous night isn't too muddled with heat-stroke and drink. The heat-stroke, maybe. None of it has that weird haze of drunkenness, only the stale stillness of dehydration.

"This isn't a very good attempt at saving water, you know," Clyde grumbles. He unwraps his arms reluctantly and turns anyway.

Ben presses into him, enjoying the way Clyde's back feels -- solid and strong, heavy with muscle, flesh dense, skin soft. Ben guides his arms, stroking from bicep to forearm, pressing them to the steam-warmed tile behind the spray of water that pounds against his chest and turns his skin pink. _Irish Spring_ runs in rivulets from Clyde's hair over his shoulders, slides lazily over the cradle of his spine. Ben spreads him and he sighs, flanks tensing and his shoulders relaxing by some strange trick of anatomy. Ben rises just slightly onto his toes and slots his cock between the lovely, dense muscles of his ass. He reels at the warmth of Clyde's skin and the ridiculously softness of his dark hair. Ben's heart races just a little. He's so used to the vainly cultivated hairlessness of athletes and adjuncts and pretty lab partners and peer reviewers. Clyde is a marvel.

Ben pumps his hips slowly, enjoying the drag and the feel of the water against his shoulders and the crown of his head. He makes an ugly sound, nearly losing it when Clyde helps him along -- arching his back low and pushing his hips back in a shape Ben has only ever seen in video clips that threaten to give his computer the flu.

Wobbling, Ben grabs the only thing that makes sense. Clyde grunts at the tug on his hair and bubbles run down Ben's arm, dropping off of his elbow to slide behind his cock against Clyde's body. Forearm braced agains tthe wall and shoulders hitched high, Clyde steadies his feet and strokes himself, heavy breathing echoing against the tile.

It's enough, sound and sight, to push Ben toward the edge and then there isn't just ridiculous whole-body cleanser sticking attractively to the small of Clyde's back. Ben swears and pants and leans against him, wrapping his hand around Clyde's.

Clyde laughs when he's finished, forehead against the tile. "Supposed to get _clean_ in the shower."

The rest is strangely domestic. They shower, really, navigating the narrow tub and the _Irish Spring_ and then towels and toothpaste, taking turns at the sink, Ben wandering out into the unfamiliar living room to retrieve his bag. He dresses while he listens to the hum of the hairdryer and then turns to the sheets twisted up on the bed.

He feels like he shouldn't leave a mess behind, that Clyde's sensibilities might be offended in some way by the wrinkled mess of the fitted sheet and the crushed pillows on the otherwise bare mattress. The rest of the place seems so orderly, neither overly decorated nor spartan, lived-in but neat. He smooths out the three very efficient pillows and runs his hands down over the fitted sheet in a nice, straight line. It looks a bit sad, he thinks, imagining his own indulgent nest.

Clyde appears in the doorway, dark mane a study in fluff and towel precarious around his waist. "Can you work a coffee pot? A real one, not one of those with the little plastic things." Ben nods and rocks back on his heels, hands jammed in his pockets. "Well, go start it then." Clyde's still-sleepy smile is disarming. Ben's stomach flips.

It gets stranger. Clyde floats around the house in a pair of well-worn jeans and nothing else, prosthetic left behind in the bedroom. His hair is less cloud-like when he emerges from the bedroom, like he's run a dryer sheet over it to scare away the static. He tells Ben to have a seat at the small table and goes about the business of getting a pair of mugs down from the cabinet.

"How does eggs and bacon sound?" Wonderful. "I like my bacon well-done." Great. suddenly there's a steaming mug in front of Ben, a heavy one like greasy-spoon diners dole out, and a carton of milk. "Onion?" Totally fine.

Clyde rummages in the fridge and soon there's butter sizzling in the bottom of a skillet and he's upending a container of diced onion into the slick pool of it. Clyde turns and holds his hand out, asks Ben to pass him the salt shaker from the table. Ben gets a decent look at the medallion on his forearm. _Death Before Dishonor,_ a mean little skull in a cap. The silence stretches over the sizzling in the pan.

"I like your tattoos," Ben says. He rolls his eyes at himself.

"Thanks."

"Your arm, that's...?"

"Ranger thing." Clyde's level of talkativeness fluctuates wildly, Ben realizes, with little indication as to what will lead down a sparse lane and what might be a garden of opportunity. "Got it when I finished the course, officially one of the boys." He gestures toward the living room with the salt shaker. There's a flag on the wall where a family portrait might be in another home with a unit number and a pretty coat of arms. Ben wants to make a joke about octopuses and wolves and thinks better of it. There's a group photo near it, a tightly packed group all in matching tee shirts and mud-covered pants.

"I noticed the mermaid this morning." Clyde keeps twisting away from him, the larger bit of ink on his side continuously obscured as he breaks eggs with one hand against the side of the skillet and chucks the shells into the sink. "She's sitting on a horseshoe?"

"Lucky horseshoe, lucky lady." Ben has never heard of a mermaid being a symbol of luck. Don't they mean certain doom for sailors? Dragged into the sea when they fall in love? "I was seventeen and none too smart, I suppose." Clyde finally twists toward Ben and lifts his arm of his own accord. "Magpies. Got 'em on leave after my first tour."

"Aren't magpies, like, harbringers of death or something?" Ben is starting to notice a theme.

"Single ones. Pairs are for luck, joy, all that. They're very smart, too. Pass all the tests for self-awareness, know it's themselves in a mirror, solve puzzles real fast -- even ones they haven't seen before."

The image is fairly detailed, birds in flight together with their wings positioned like they might even be dance partners somehow. Ben winces and touches his own side, thinking of how much everyone insisted it would hurt just to get a bunch of stupid rings there. Without the Olympics his skin would stay fresh and unmarked, he guesses.

"They didn't do much in the luck department, I guess." Clyde's expression is knowing, poking fun at himself. He turns back to the stove. The heavy scent of cooking bacon has filled the kitchen. Clyde slaps the slices down onto a paper towel-lined dish and tips the eggs out onto two plates. Purposefully, he sets each dish down onto the table. He sits and raises a brow at Ben. "Go ahead, eat."

Clyde crunches contentedly on bacon that is more than a little well-done. He appears entirely at-ease. The scent of his stupid all-over soap clings to him underneath the smells of breakfast and coffee and even though it should be off-putting, Ben finds it endearing.

He wonders what this is like? This thing where you do more than fuck, where you _give a fuck,_ that he finds himself imitating. He thinks, fleetingly, as he refills his mug from the glass carafe on the counter and returns to his seat, that he could get used to being this way. Domestic and soppy. It would confuse the hell out of his parents, that's for damned sure, and confusing his parents had always been a favorite pastime.

Ben wonders, even more fleetingly, if Leia has called the police yet? He's positive she's been alerted to his credit card activity. There haven't been any further calls. No texts. No very strongly worded emails. His card definitely worked at the bar last night so she hasn't cut him off. He's almost disappointed over it. Almost.

Clyde asks Ben about himself and he's apologetic that he occupied all of the conversation the night previous. He has the nerve to blush over it, his cheeks turning just a little bit pink before he hides in his own mug off coffee.

Ben talks about fencing, how natural he feels with a blade in his hands and his feet on the mat -- how wearing the mask is the most freeing thing he has ever experienced.

"You melt behind the mesh, you know? And you're just the blade. The movement and the power all just sort of flows behind it and it's all you. It all depends on how good you are, how much better you are than your opponent. I feel like the épée is... well it's _me_ but also not me. It's like another limb and I can feel it in my hand if I close my eyes. I know every bit of it, every last gram of weight and inch of length. I know how far it flexes and how hard the tip is like I know how my own arms and legs work. And it's... it's _electric_. Literally and figuratively, I guess. You need a current to register points."

Ben sighs and takes a bite of a stone-cold slice of bacon from the pile of it still on the table. He falls into an agitated silence for several beats before he picks up the thread again. "And now it's all gone to shit."

"Well," Clyde starts, chewing the inside of his cheek like he's unsure of what to say next. "It sounds to me like it might be your own fault."

" _Excuse me_."

"You're a goddamn brat, Ben. A poor sportsman. Would you want _you_ on your team?"

Ben unconsciously crumbles the piece of bacon in his hand. "Of course I would -- I'm the fucking _best_."

"Fat lotta good it didja." Ben gasps and opens and closes his mouth uselessly. He opens his hand, dropping the ruined piece of bacon onto his plate. His palm is shiny with sweat and grease. "Now that y'ain't got much to do, what's your plan?"

Ben feels like all of the rage is punched out of him in one swift blow. "I was pre-law," he explains in the second time in as many days. "I was supposed to work for my mother's charity. It's like... the family business, or something. Charity and politics. Unless you ask my dad who just says it's _business_ like he's some kind of fuckin' _boss_. Bastard hasn't worked a damn day since he married my mother, it's all vanity projects."

Clyde's eyebrows and hairline have become one in astonishment. Ben deflates further. He's embarrassed and it's not a feeling that he's familiar with. He's not sure how to navigate it.

"Sports law," he finally mutters, pouting just a little. "I'd rather do that, really, if I absolutely have to. It's... familiar. Feels useful. I guess. Less like I'm pretending to give a shit." His shoulders hitch just a little higher. "And you have to know a lot -- contract laws and injury and trademark and... and... criminal too, I guess. And you have to understand all the administrative bullshit, which _I do_ and I'm going to make them fuckin' pay for humiliating me the way they are. I know I --"

Ben gasps because it's the only thing he really can do with Clyde's lips pressed to his and Clyde's big, rough hand on his face. He tastes like coffee. There is the slightest slip of grease and butter on his lips.

"I like you, Ben, but I wonder if you ever listen'ta yourself when you talk?" Clyde laughs at him. _Laughs_. Ben's stomach does strange things and he feels warm.

There's a faint jangling of keys and a soft bump like someone has knocked their knee against the front door while they were trying to get inside. It swings open on silent hinges and the warm, humid air from outside rushes in.

"Clyde do you know there's a strange car in your driveway?" A tall, pretty woman strides through the door and shuts it firmly behind herself. She nearly slips on the shirt still there on the floor. "Good Lord, Clyde turn the alarm on; you don't need to set a damn booby-trap."

She shifts the cloth sack of groceries in her arms onto one hip and bends to pick the shirt up. She takes another step and picks the tee shirt up, too, and chucks them both toward the couch.

"Car's got New Jersey plates, doesn't look cheap, either. Do you --" She finally looks up and toward the dining area. " _Oh_ ," she purses her lips and narrows her eyes at the pair of them there at the table. With confident steps she strides into the kitchen and sets her bag down on the counter. "You know, Clyde when Joe Bang said you should go fuck yourself, he didn't mean literally."

Ben is confused.

"Mellie, I don't know what you're talkin' about."

"You're unaware that... you know what? I'm not even gonna touch it. Do you know that every gossipy hag on this block is sittin' out on their front porch havin' their morning sips and smokes?"

"I supposed they would be."

"Well alright then." She opens the fridge and starts to put things from her bag inside. "Are you going to introduce me to your fresh-faced conquest?"

Panic seizes Ben's chest. Not everyone is as wild and free as he is. But Clyde doesn't seem bothered, not really. Only mildly annoyed. "Ben, this is Mellie, my little sister. Mellie, this is Ben."

"I just... I gave him a ride home. Last night."

Mellie raises a brow and makes a sound of begrudging amusement. "Bless your heart." She crosses her arms and leans back against the counter. "Clyde is this the one the Danner boys are raisin' hell about in town? They got the Bang brothers all riled up and itchin' for a fight."

Ben cannot help the ugly snort he lets out. Mellie glares at him. "Bang bros?" She nods. "They wouldn't happen to be _cocky boys_ , would they?"

She's exasperated. "I don't know, I suppose they're cocky. Not in any sort of justified manner, though. What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Clyde pinches Ben's side and he hisses. "Are you havin' a go at me?" Clyde clears his throat and proclaims that Ben is really just a bit of an asshole. Mellie shakes her head. "Is he gonna be clearin' out soon?"

"I -- I suppose." He doesn't want to. He wants to ask Clyde to take the day off and drive with him. Anywhere. Myrtle Beach can't be more than a few hours away, it's in one of the Carolinas, isn't it?

"Well, I'd prefer to move the car into the drive and you're blockin' it," she says matter-of-factly. She borrowed Clyde's, Ben remembers through the haze of everything. She holds out her hand. "I'll move yours, you don't have to get up."

Clyde nods reassuringly and Ben gets up to find his keys. "She likes cars," he says after she's cleared the porch and is walking down the front path. "Don't worry, she won't drive it too far."

He grins and Ben darts toward the front window. Clyde laughs while he cleans up the table. The car is still out front. There's a brick-colored mustang pulling into the driveway. It's old, but Ben wouldn't call it a classic. Eighties, maybe, long in the front and squashed in the back. Well-kept. Clyde is behind him then, his hand on Ben's waist and his nose against the curve of his neck.

"You're scared off now, aren't you?"

"No."

"Yeah, you are."

"Maybe."

"You should get home, Runaway. I'm sure there's people worried about you, even if y'are a fuckin' brat."

"What if I want to hang around your bar and cause trouble?"

"There's not a chance in hell you'd make it out of a fight with any'a those boys and I ain't gettin' tangled up in yer mess."

"Coward."

"Nah, smart."

Clyde pushes away, reluctant fingers trailing across Ben's hips. Mellie is moving Ben's car back into the driveway, the back bumper kissing the very edge of the asphalt before the sidewalk. Clyde mumbles about getting dressed properly and disappears into the bedroom as Mellie is coming back inside.

Ben fills a glass with water from the tap and sits across from Mellie, sipping uneasily. He half expects her to ask him what his intentions with her brother are, the way that she's studying him. When she finally does speak, she's somber and sober.

"You're gonna clear out, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I... I probably should."

"Good. Way people are talkin' around town, you can really only cause trouble for Clyde. Gossip here has long legs and a longer life. Frankly, I'm surprised the neighbors haven't come pokin' around."

"Somebody stopped us last night. Clyde said I was a friend from the service, just passing through. Seemed like they bought it."

Mellie nods and purses her lips thoughtfully. "Where are you headed, anyway? You're an awful long way from home judgin' by those plates."

"No where in particular, just, away."

"Ha! I know that feelin'. Are you gonna keep following ninety-five or make a U-turn?"

Ben shrugs. He really has no idea. All he sees going back is a whole lot of nothing. At least forward is mysterious and interesting.

"Mellie, do you really need to interrogate _all_ of my dates?" Clyde is dressed almost the same as he was the previous evening, his shirt a slate-grey instead. "A little help?"

He holds an arm out to Mellie and she rolls the sleeve with infuriating precision. It earns her an affectionate forehead kiss that she rubs at like a petulant child. She rolls the second sleeve anyway.

Ben... has to leave. Immediately.

"I guess I'll get going, then." Clyde nods and doesn't try to stop him from retrieving his bag or making his way toward the door. Clyde holds it open and walks him outside, perfectly gentlemanly. He squints into the sun, warily scanning the block. He lifts a hand to shade his eyes and makes that curious shape with his mouth again. "Never gonna see you again, am I, Runaway?"

"Well, that's certainly defeatist of you."

"Ah, I just hope I'm memorable." Clyde laughs softly. His eyes dart and he catches Ben off-guard with a quick peck, his soft lips smashing against Ben's for the briefest heartbeat. "Get home safe."

Mellie stands in the doorway, mug in hand. Clyde turns and shouts back to her, asking her what she thinks is the best way to pick the highway back up, northbound, making Ben's decisions for him.

Mellie's instructions rolling around in the back of his skull, Ben doesn't stop driving until he's home. It's well after dark when he turns onto the private street and pulls the car into the long driveway.

The security code at the gate works and so does his key. He relaxes by fractions, unaware that he was worried until he was punching buttons and turning handles with sweaty hands.

Leia is sitting up in the kitchen. She doesn't look up from her tablet when Ben comes through the door.

"I'm sorry, Mom."

"No, you're not." She glances at him and continues to tend to whatever task is on her screen. "Don't add insult to injury with disingenuous apologies. I've already cleaned up your mess."

"Mom, I --"

"Ben, go to your room." She finally looks up at him. She's exhausted, weariness etched into the lines around her eyes and heavy across her shoulders. There is an open bottle of wine on the counter, a glass in front of her.

Ben barks out a laugh. "I'm and adult."

"Ben, _go_."

For once, Ben doesn't snap back. He retreats and heads up the stairs. He doesn't hesitate to step heavily or slam his door, but he goes all the same.

His room is as he left it: equipment dumped on the floor and drawers hanging open. He dumps the clothes he'd so hastily packed into the hamper and closes the drawers. Carefully, he packs his equipment away and stows the bag in his closet.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Too tired to undress, he lies staring at the ceiling. If the entire body is a valid target, he's been entirely skewered.

Ben passes out, the world weighing too heavily on him to hold his eyes open any longer.

***

At the bar that night, Mellie shrugs Joe Bang away with a measure of kindness. It was just a fling between them, she keeps insisting. They're both too smart to get tangled up like that and Mellie won't be tied.

"You think he got wherever he was goin' alright?" she wonders aloud as Clyde muddles her a mojito. The drink is sharp and fresh without too much ice to water it down like some more high-class establishment might do to keep patrons buying more. Clyde makes honest drinks.

Clyde shrugs and pushes a sprig of mint into the top of the glass, chews on a bright green leaf himself. "I guess I'll never know."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are so so appreciated.
> 
> What the fuck even. For the group chat <3 and the hours of brainstorming and enabling this nonsense.
> 
> I've looked up how Olympic qualification works and how the official FIE ranks work and I've chosen to utterly disregard it in favor of plot. I'm also not 100% sure how the school bus race works but it's _real_ and sounds like the most fun ever.


End file.
